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IRENE OF CORINTH; 

AN 


I^ISiPOr^IG I^OMANGE 

OF THE FIRST CENTURY. 


REV. R J. HAROLD. 

ii 

• j- ' ' ' 


** But there are deeds which should not pass away. 
And names that must not wither, though the earth 
Forgets her empires — Bvron. 


. ^eufisit0tt, it. 1. 

INDEX PUBLISHING COMPANY. 

1884. 


# 






♦v 



Entered acxx>rding to Act of CongresB, in the year 1884, by 
Rev. P. J. Habold, 

in the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 



PREFACE. 



ANY a book called a history contains less truth than 
the present volume, which bears the' title of a ro- 
mance. This will be ^ clear to the student who can steal an 
occasional hour to look over the following pages. But while 
historic facts form the base, the superstructure is of that airy, 
material called fiction. The first century of the Christian era 
is so rich a mine of fact and romance, that it is passing strange 
how few novelists have located a claim upon it. The author has 
taken the most . noteworthy facts of that age — of interest to 
every Christian — and dressed them up in the garb of a tale ; 
so as, he hopes, to place them before a class of persons who 
can never be brought to engage in the comparatively dry read- 
ing of text books of history. 

Whether the story will be found sufficiently absorbing by 
the general reader the author has as yet no means of ascertain- 
ing ; but he may truly say, that if it afford as much entertain- 
ment to those who will read it as it afforded himself while en- 
gaged in its composition, it will amply repay a perusal. The ^ 


4 


PREFACE. 


idea of the work was conceived while reading the “ Historiche 
Komane ” of the celebrated scholar, Father Bolanden, who has 
done more than any other writer to put before his countrymen, 
in its true light, the history of Germany during the middle 
ages. Exact chronologers may find fault with the order of 
certain events embodied in this story, as well as with the 
length of time through which the plot carries them previous 
to its denouements but the license so freely accorded, and more 
freely indulged by all writers of fiction, will, the author trusts, 
exempt him on this count from too harsh a criticism. 


Niagara, April 10th, 1684. 


P. J. HAROLD. 



CO NTEN.TS. 


PAGE. 

Preface 3 

CHAPTER I. 

Ay Ambitious Parent 9 

CHAPTER II 

A Rejected Lover 20 

CHAPTER III. 

# ^ 

Within the Wails - - - - - - - - 33 

CHAPTER IV.- 

The Last, op the High Priests - - •! - - 40 

CHAPTER V. 

A Bereaved Father 63 

• CHAPTER VI. 

Love at First Sight - . . - ... go 

CHAPTER VIT. 

The Fall of the Temple 76 

CHAPTER VIII. 

The Rival’s Stratagem 86 

CHAPTER IX. 


Shipwrecked 


98 


6 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER X. PAGE. 

An Adventure - - 104 

CHAPTER XL 

Zion’s Daughter a Slave - - 115 

CHAPTER XII. 

In the Sibyl’s Cave - - - - - - 121 

CHAPTER XIIL 

A Roman Triumph 132 

CHAPTER XIV. 

An Apostolic Advice - - - • • - - 139 

CHAPTER XV. 

A Fraud Exposed 161 

CHAPTER XVI. 

Rome on Fire 162 

% 

CHAPTER XVII. * 

Was it Irene ? 178 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

Almost a Murder - - 188 

- CHAPTER XIX. 

The Siren’s Banquet 201 

CHAPTER XX. 

A Pagan’s Morality 216 

CHAPTER XXI. 

The Bird Ensnared , , . 234 


CONTENTS. 


7 


CHAPTER XXII. PAGE. 

The lague ... - 246 

CHAPTER XXIII. 

Persecution 256 

CHAPTER XXIV. 

The Rival’s Success ..... . 260 

' CHAPTER XXV. 

The Betrothed in the Arena 276 

CHAPTER XXVI. 

A Light in the Dungeon - 291 

CHAPTER XXVII. 

Sunshine - 295 





IRENE OF CORINTH. 




CHAPTER L 

AN AMBITIOUS PAPvENT. 


“ Mark you this.lBassanio, 

The Devil can cite scripture for his purpose. 

Ah' evil soul producing holy witness 
Is like a villain with a smiling cheek ; 

A goodly apple rotten at the heart ; 

O what a goodly outside falsehood hath.” 

—Merchant of Venice. 

’ ^vT^WAS a Summer evening. At an open casement of a 
house near the inner wall of the beleaguered city, two 
females were looking out towards the western sky. 

“ See,” said one to her companion, “ how they pursue the man 
without a helmet ; he must be the Roman general.” “ And 
they will certainly capture or kill him,” rejoined the com- 
panion ; “ they are surrounding him in great numbers.” As . 
she spoke a stalwart Jew poised a* long spear, and was on the 
point of striking Titus, when a young Roman sprang off his 
horse, and cleft the spearman’s skull with a blow of his sword. 

A hand to hand fight ensued ; but, as reinforcements came up 
from the Roman lines, Titus was rescued from his perilous 
situation. ' 

. ♦ The slanting rays of an Oriental sun were bathing the sum- 
mit of Calvary with a flood of purple and golden splendor, 
and projecting the ever-lengthening shadows of the retiring 
A 


10 


lEENE OF CORINTH. 


horsemen back towards the city, as the women gazed after 
them in silence, and apparently unconscious of the beauty of 
the distant landscape.- 

Though both were clad in the custom^-ry flowing dress of 
Hebrew maidens, it was evident to the most careless observer 
that they were of different nationalities. One sat on a low chair, 
her elbow resting on her knee, as she leaned against the mar- 
ble window sill, with her right hand buried to the wrist in 
the abundant raven-black hair, which fell in long ringlets over 
the well formed shoulders. Her features were oval, and her 
lustrous black eyes received additional depths of shading, 
from the arched brows, and long drooping lashes, where a 
glistening tear still lingered. 

The other stood facing her, leaning against the uncurtained 
but richly carved frame. She was somewhat above the 
middle height, lithe and wiry in appearance; and although 
grief had told upon her, yet there remained in her looks a 
majesty that instantly impressed one with a sense of awe and 
reverence. Her brows and lashes were brown and her hair, of 
the same color, was done up in the fashion of Greek women, 
and faced with an ampyx. Her forehead was broad and low, 
her eyes hazel, and her other features in such perfect propor- 
tion, and so finely chiselled, that she might serve as a model 
for a Diana or a Minerva. Above all, her complexion, unlike her 
companion’s, was fair; and the least unusual circumstance would 
change the snowy whiteness of her cheeks to the hue of the 
most violently red among roses. 

They had not been long at the casement, when just beyond 
the walls they saw a reconnoitering party of Eoman horsemen 
galloping at full speed over the rough ground, which separated 
their lines from the city defences. A number of Jewish soldiers, 
who, as if by magic, sprang up all at once from behind stumps 
and boulders, were pursuing them, with spears and arrows and 
endeavoring to cut off their retreat. It was this lively scene 
that gave occasion to the conversation which opens the chapter. 
Now hardly was the skirmish over, when the quick Corinthian 
eye of the taller woman detected Simon the tyrant passing by 
with her brother. Xs they drew near she listened attentively 
to the sound of their voices, but could not understand what 
they said. She cautiously looked out after them ; and although 


AN AMBITIOUS BARENT. 


11 


the expression of the tyrant’s face was hid from her, she sus- 
pected by his menacing gestures and rapid gait that she was 
the subject of the conversation. In an instant, the marble 
statue she might be mistaken for, became instinct with unusual 
animation. Her eye flashed, the youthful blood mantled 
rapidly to her brows and temples, and her figure became erect. 
The fixed resolve of an unbending will, one might read in the 
rigidly set lips ; while withering scorn was written on every 
one of her defiant features. Anna started from a reverie, and 
with a woman’s quick perception divined the cause of the 
change. “ Dear cousin, ” she began timidly, “ you have seen 
the tyrant, I heard the voice — .” She was about to name him, 
when she felt that the mention of the word Simon must cause 
unnecessary pain ; so she paused abruptly. “Yes” answered 
Irene — this was the Corinthian’s name. “ Yes ” she said, as her 
lips parted no more than it was necessary they should to hurl 
out the monosyllable, and closed again more rigidly if possible 
than before. Then, ^as if suddenly recollecting that it was not 
Simon who was before her, but her cousin Anna, the muscles of her 
face relaxed ; and while hot tears started to her eyes, she 
struggled to smile through them on her cousin, who by this 
time had risen from the trivet, and stood with joined hands 
looking up compassionately into the face of the sufferer. The 
two women embi'aced each othei> and after a silent interming- 
ling of tears took up their former positions at the casement. 
The silence, interrupted only by sobs, became oppressive, and 
was first broken by Irene. Looking out over the Roman 
camp (the reader must here be told that our story opens during 
the siege of Jerusalem by Titus) she raised her left hand 
■ towards Heaven, then suddenly letting it fall, she said in a low 
and mournful tone, merely finishing the sentence which she 
had been mentally reciting, “ yet I must not thus hate him. 
Dearest cousin,” she then said, addressing Anna ; “ it is un- 
lawful to hate even our enemies ; but should Simon torture me, 
as is his wont with his other victims, should he threaten death, 
I will laugh at his impotent rage. Never shall he force me 
to wed his son, and abandon my faith. Even I, a poor weak 
woman can follow though at a distance, in the footsteps of 
James the Apostle, who was thrown down ’from yonder temple, or 
of Paul, who brought the glad tidings of the Gospel to my 


12 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


native city. Alas ! how often have I heard my father speak of 
him, and of the day he blessed me and my brother as he passed 
the door 'step where we were playing. Happy days, thrice 
happy indeed ! ” As she proceeded with this discourse, her 
body seemed to assume the lightness of the ambient air ; the 
enthusiasm with which the prospect of martyrdom filled her 
soul, flashed from her eyes, and seemed to transflgure her now 
lovely countenance. Anna caught the inspiration, and spring- 
ing up exclaimed, “ Irene, dearest Irene, if you must suffer, let 
me be with you, I will die with you rather than be parted 
from you. What little I know of the Messias I have learned 
it from you ; and that little sustains me.” The sound of feet 
on the stone stairs without interrupted the conversation ; and, as 
Irene, with a hasty farewell, disappeared by one door, there 
appearedat anotheran elderly man of medium height, with a broad 
forehead and small black eyes, which were continually blinking. 
What his other features were like, the reader must resort to 
his imagination to discover ; for, excepting his aquiline nose, 
they were hidden from view by a long white beardj that 
reached almost to his waist. Without ceremony this man drew 
a stool with his foot close to the window where Anna stood’; 
and sitting down he motioned her to follow his example. She 
obeyed mechanically. For a long time there was 
silence, and Anna fell back into her reveries, from which a 
blast of the Sabbatine trumpet, which sounded on the eve of 
the day of rest as well as on the Sabbath itself, recalled her. 
She looked at him but for an instant, and then withdrew her 
gaze with alarm. Involuntarily her frame shook and an 
indefinable misery look possession of her soul. What did she 
read in her father’s eyes ? “ My daughter,” began the ancient, 

softly drawing her close to him, and kissing her, “ thou seemest 
afraid ; thou art yet too young, far top young, to taste the gall 
of sorrow. But the God of our fathers will not long permit the 
arrows of His wrath to pierce His children. His hand hath 
been heavy upon us all of late ; but thou and I are destined for 
the glory of a lofty throne.” As he spoke a large stone, hurled 
by one of the Roman engines, struck the embrasure of the win- 
dow,and, splintering into fragments, filled the room with dust 
and broken bits of rock, one of which actually hit the ancient a 
severe blow on the hand. ' Anna leaped up to rush from the 


AN AMBITIOUS PARENT. • 


13 


apartment, thinking that a few more visitors of this kind would 
rather disturb the throne her father had just been speaking of ; 
but the ancient, who knew that such badly-aimed shots were 
rare, only moved his stool back into a corner, and called on his 
daughter to remain. “ Art thou much hurt, father 1 ” she asked, 
as she now saw him rubbing the wounded hand with the other 
one. In her eagerness to be of service to her father, she forgot 
her danger, and stood directly before the window. The wound 
was trivial, however, and the old man, after opening and looking 
oirt of both doors of the apartment, and into a closet, before 
' which hung a remnant of torn curtain, to assure himself that 
no listeners were near, proceeded with his mysterious conver- 
sation. “ Dry up thy tears, my child, ” said he, “ the God of 
Abraham hath called thee to be another Judith. Nay, start 
not, thou knowest her history, her success, her difficulties, and 
her glory.” This man had never before shown such tenderness 
by word or look to this his only daughter, and she naturally 
felt that he had some design upon her. She was dimly con- 
scious of this ; but she listened, in order to learn what it might 
be. She another Judith, indeed ! What did her father mean ? 
He continued : “ When Judith delivered the holy city an 
enemy was at the gates. Then, as now, many in the city were 
in despair ; but our God, who guided Jacob into his inheritance, 
will again raise »His all-powerful arm, and break the teeth of 
His enemies. They have dug a pit for us, and they shall fall 
into it themselves. How often have' our people been on the 

eve of ruin, when .” But here Anna, whose wonder grew 

apace as her father’s unintelligible enthusiasm soared aloft, had 
arrived at that degree of suspense which must be relieved ; 
and without apology for the interruption, she asked her father 
whither all this tended. “ Father,” said she, “ I know not thy 
meaning, nor thy purpose. I am but a weak maid, and thou 

are without means “ Hush, child,” said he, testily, the 

pain of his hand and her sudden interruption annoying him, 
the spirit of prophesy is upon me. As Judith prospered, so 
shalt thou. Is Titus greater than H 9 lofernes 1 Is Rome 
mightier than Assyria, or Vespasian more terrible than Nebu- 
chadnezzar ? Internal dissensions are already tearing the vast 
idolatrous fabric of the empire asunder. Like the huge crested 
billows that rage for a time, and submerge with merciless cru- 


14 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


elty the strongest craft of the . seamen, but at last spend their 
fury on the little sands that playfully defy them, so this great 
empire is speeding onward to decay ; and we, the seed of Abra- 
ham, like the sands of the sea in numbers, though weak in arms, 
we shall be the scoffers at its final overthrow.” He paused, to 
see the effect of his words. They only mystified Anna the more, 
but perhaps this pleased him ; so he went on in this strain : 
“ Simon seeks thee in marriage for his son, my child. He is 
potent, is rich, is valorous — is a villain, Anna added, in an un- 
dertone — and with thee his efforts and their results will be ten- 
fold increased, and thus ' thou canst shed great lustre on thy 
family, thy tribe, thy very nation, nay, thy praises shall be sung 
to the uttermost ends of the earth, while history lives to record 
the heroic deeds of the strong women.” Again he paused and 
stared into his daughter’s eyes. She had begun to think that 
her parent was .insane. When a father has set his heart upon 
a plan to advance his children, or himself through them, it is 
hard for him to brook opposition from them, and now this 
father already felt, on the threshold of his enterprise, that he 
was going to be resisted. Father,” said Anna, mastering her 
overwrought feelings, “ what you say is vain — pardon the ex- 
pression — the hand of God is against us.” So spake not 
Judith, when Israel despaired of success,” he replied, sticking to 
his one idea. .Then rising and moving cautiously to the case- 
ment, he drew her arm within his own, and pointed towards 
the Roman camp. “ Look,” said he, “ see yonder the enemies 
of Jehovah, look,” and again he pointed his withered and trem- 
bling finger in the direction of the tower of Psephinus, 
the eight-sided structure which protected the north-western 
angle of the outer wall of the city. She looked out into the 
dusky twilight. “ There,” he continued, “ before that tower is 
the tent of Titus. How like pigmies his soldiers ; how unlike 
the swarming hosts of the proud Assyrian ! Child,” he pro- 
ceeded, in an argumentative way, “yonder army is but an ant- 
hill ; but even if it were multiplied an hundred fold, what suc- 
cess could it hope for against these triple walls 1 Thou knowest 
their great thickness, their height, and the number of towers 
that flank them ; also. the chasm that yawns grimly, like death 
itself, between the outer wall and the enemy ; and, lastly, the 
stout hearts 'that guard the defences. High above us, there, 


. AN AMBITIOUS PAKENT. 


15 


stands the temple, with its special walls and gates, and the 
majesty of the God of armies dwells therein. One enemy alone 
we may fear, an enemy within our walls — we hunger, child, we 
are starving.” And from their dismal cavities, as he spoke, his 
sunken eyes looked out hideously upon her, and his trembling 
hand leaned restlessly on her arm ; she shrank back from her 
parent as from a wraith. “ The God of our fathers has often 
saved us,” he persisted, following her up with a strange look, 
half imploring, half menacing. “ This once, too, He will rescue 
us from the breath of the whirlwind. Daughter, pity thy father 
— the holy city — the temple. If thou destroy this Titus, as 
Judith destroyed Holofernes, thou canst wed the greatest of the 
sons of Israel, and mayest, yes thou shalt, become the mother 
of the long-expected Messias.” Here the old man, elevating 
in the most tragic manner his shaky hands, and clasping them 
above his head, raised his eyes with that artless piety which 
never fails the hypocrite. In this attitude he remained some 
seconds; then, keeping his fingers still entwined, he slowly 
lowered his arms, till they hung at full length before him. At 
the same time, his head drooped slightly to one side till his 
chin rested on the ephod. Properly this ornament should be 
worn only in the temple ; but he had placed it on his breast 
on this occasion, evidently to impress his daughter more 
strongly with what he was going to impart to her. 

The poor child was bewildered, stunned, and for some minutes 
looked vacantly before her, as if quite bereft of sense and reason 
alike. Could this outrageous proposition be really the voice, 
the command of God speaking through this priest, her father ! 
Was she really destined to become the preserver of her country, 
to rival Judith in fame, to excel her by becoming the mother 
of the Messias 1 There was always more dread than reverence 
in her conduct and regard for her parent ; yet she was unable 
thus far to believe him a villain. And still she could not re- 
sist the persuasion that he was led to form*this mad scheme 
through a selfish motive, which made him ready and willing to 
sacrifice his daughter on the altar of a morbid and profligate 
ambition. Her knowledge of Christianity did not extend 
much beyond the teaching that the Messias had already come. 
Was her conviction regarding this fact, an awful but fascinating 
dream, that would one day vanish on her awakening to truth ? 


16 


IHENE OF CORINTH. 


Or was the crucified Jesus — long since ascended — really the pro- 
mised Christ, the expected of nations 1 At length’rousing herself 
from these disturbing thoughts that coursed and pursued each 
other with mad careering through her brain, she raised her 
eyes to those of her father. Trembling in every limb, her face 
more blanched if possible than before, she essayed to address 
him ; but the words refused to come. The priest saw these 
effects which his words had wrought in his daughter, and with 
the readiness of a schemer to believe his plans must succeed, 
he rashly concluded that she was ready to accept his danger- 
ous commission. “ Sit down, child,” he said affectionately, as 
he led her back to the trivet, from which she had previously 
risen at his command, to view the walls and camp. “ I see 
that thou art too weak to look upon the brilliant career in store 
for thee. It dazzles now ; but — ” “Father,” interrupted the 
girl, with majestic emphasis — this time words rushed from 
her lips like a torrent, and her soul seemed to live in them — 
“ you say truly that the God of Abraham has ever been the 
saviour of His people 1 ” “ Certainly, certainly, my child,” an- 
swered the priest, nodding his head repeatedly to strengthen 
his assertion, “certainly He has, and He is and will ever be.” 
“We read,” continued Anna, “that the Jordan turned back, 
and that walled towns fell down at the word of the servants of 
the God of Israel.” “ Yes, yes,” said her father, “ and we read 
these words besides : ‘ If ye will hear My voice and keep My 
covenant, you shall be My peculiar possession, above all peo- 
ple.’ ” “ True,” returned Anna, “ but* the Lord hath also 
made some threats ; for we read these words addressed to our 
forefathers : ‘ The Lord will bring upon thee a nation from 
afar and from the uttermost parts of the earth, like an eagle 
that ffieth swiftly, whose tongue thou canst not understand 1 ’ 
His prophets have complained that in spite of all the good 
things He gave our nation, it has been ever rebellious. Have 
not our scribes, and our learned priests, explained to us, that 
the law given by preference to the children of Abraham is only 
a figure of the great universal Law, to be given by another 
greater than Moses, the Messias, that it is not to last for ever ? ” 
She paused for a moment as if defying contradiction, while her 
father, whose turn it was now to be perplexed, looked his per- 
plexity with every feature his shaggy beard did not conceal. 


AN AMBITIOUS PARENT. 


17 


He had never before heard his daughter speaking so eloquently, 
speaking at all in fact on such abstruse subjects, and he won- 
dered whether she would come to the only legitimate conclu- 
sion of such an argument. However, dissembling his suspicion, 
he said falteringly, “ But child, our God will ever remain with 
His people, and raise them up to rule all the nations of the 
earth. He has sworn never to abandon us.” “ Never while 
we remain faithful to the laws He gave us,” interposed Anna, 
thereby reminding her father of the conditional nature of the 
promise. Then lowering her voice, and throwing into it all 
the tenderness of her gifted soul, she thus continued : “ Father, 
our Lawgiver Moses himself told us that another greater than 
he should arise whom we must obey. The prophets have fore- 
told that a new covenant should supersede the old, and another 
priesthood replace our own ; finally that when thfe Christ — this 
lawgiver — would come, that we would reject Him, and make 
away with Him, and after this crime we should be abandoned 
to the mercy of our enemies. You know this, dear father, so 
much better than I ; and you know that common tradition 
amongst us, that when we would sully our Holy temple, by 
slaughtering one another there, the end was soon at hand, 
Now, have not these things, 0 Father, come upon us T Are 
not our people everywhere down-trodden ? Do not the comet 
seen of late and the fiery horseman we saw in the sky fore- 
tell our ruin 1 Has not the fountain of Siloe refused us its 
sweet waters — the first time in our history — and turned them 
over to our enemies 1 When did the promise that we should 
not be attacked in the Paschal season ever before fail us 1 
Hath not that mysterious man, who, they say is mad, already 
gone about these seven years, crying woe, woe to the city, and 
no torture can alter his wailing 1 Hast thou not told us thy- 
self, of the dread that fell upon thee and the other priests, 
when the brazen gate of the inner court of the holy place 
burst from its bolts and bars, opening of its own accord, inviting 
the enemy into the Temple 1 Did not a strange light shine 
around the altar at another time ; and, finally did’st thou not ^ 
hear that awful, mysterious voice, as of many waters, that re- 
echoed at night throughout the Temple, saying ‘ let us go 
hence 1 ’ ” The very remembrance of that voice, or of her 
father’s account of it, caused her to tremble; then burying 


18 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


her tear-stained face in her hands, she sobbed aloud, and 
swayed to and fro on her seat. The priest was also made to 
feel uncomfortable by the reference to those mysterious occur- 
rences, but he endeavored to forget them, and without any 
attempt to allay his daughter’s emotion, savagely asked her 
whether, like the Nazarenes, she would accuse her people of 
having rejected the Messias. The chill of his voice seemed to 
freeze up the fountain of her tears. She felt that the time had 
come for professing openly, what she had for some time in- 
wardly believed. She met his stolid gaze with a look of calm 
unflinching firmness, and answered. “Yes ; the blood of the 
Messias is on our heads, we have ourselves invoked it. Jesus 
foretold this siege, prophesied that a stone should not be left 
on a stone of this Holy City. All the prophecies have been 
most wonderfully fulfilled’ in Jesus of Nazareth, and I confess 
that I believe Him to be the true, the only MessiaS.” The 
priest’s anger had been gathering like a thunder-cloud during 
this, to him, appalling declaration ; and if, at its close, the walls 
of the city had suddenly collapsed he could hardly have been 
more astounded. For a while he stood as if rivetted to the 
floor, staring with eyes that could not, save by a miracle, be- 
come more dilated, at his daughter, who after making this pro- 
fession of her belief, far from being overcome with excitement 
consequent on the ordeal, arose and carelessly turned her eyes 
from her father’s face, in the direction of the how moonlit bat- 
tlements. It is quite possible that if armed he would have 
killed his perverted child at that moment, but, as it was, his 
passion overmastered him, and he stood still. Gradually his 
eyes resumed their ordinary size and shape, and his features 
grew into a scowl that would have been a model for a demon. 
When his voice came back to him, it escaped from his chest with 
an inarticulate shriek, or hoarse roar, such as a wounded panther 
would emit. Words he could not find at first, so intense was his 
rage ; but when he did, they took the form of the vilest abuse 
and most savage imprecation. “ Wretch,” he cried, “ traitress, 
hypocrite, apostate from the religion of thy fathers, darest thou 
to mention in thy father’s presence the accursed name of the 
Nazarene, the blasphemer who made himself the Son of God — 
in presence of a priest of the Most High ! ” And he tore his 
garments asunder with his left hand, while his right ploughed 


AN AMF.ITIOUS PARENT. 


19 


through his hair and beard, and scattered the silver locks 
upon the floor. Upon how many such scenes has the old, old 
moon looked down : that bland-faced moon, which smiles on 
the inane dialogues of lovers, or the mad antics of children, and 
has no frown for the foulest assassin crouching in ambush while 
she lights up the form of his victim, and directs the fatal blow. 
But how sad was Anna who stood in the flood of that silver night 
lamp’s rays, and witnessed the fury of her unhappy father. 
She would have given her life to relieve him, but conscience 
kept her back. Was she cruel ? Or was she a heroine 1 The 
Christian and the sceptic will answer these questions differ- 
ently ; but no matter. After his first wild paroxysm, the priest 
seized his daughter by the hair, and dragged her about the apart- 
ment, all the while cursing her, and even trampling upon her. 
How long this brutal scene might have lasted, had not a mes- 
senger knocked at the door, we cannot tell — of course he could 
have legally stoned her to death — so, hurriedly readjusting his 
garments, and kicking aside the ephod, he quitted the chamber, 
retaining his excited mien, in spite of his efforts to look calm, 
and left his half-dead child there to revive or die, he now really 
little cared which. When she next became conscious, she found 
herself on a bed, and Irene sitting beside her, bathing her brow 
with water. Brief explanations followed, and then those two 
young creatures whom the woHd would call weak, joined in a 
prayer of thanksgiving to the Crucified. They esteemed it a 
very high honor to be allowed to suffer a little for the sake of 
Him, whom Matthias the High Priest, had but just now called 
a blasphemer. Irene remained with her companion until she^ 
fell asleep, and then quietly glided away to seek her brother, 
on what business we shall see in the following chapter. 


» 



CHAPTER II. 

A reTjected lover. 

“ And therefore, — since I cannot prove a lover 
*******»«*■ 

I am determined to prove a villain,” 

—Rich. III. 

S HE reader, who is familiar with the writina;s of J osephus, 
is aware that for a long time previous to V espasian's com- 
ing as Nero’s general, to besiege J erusalem, there were 
frequent seditions in that unhappy city. Even while the walls 
were clos’ely guarded by the legions under Titus,who succeeded 
his father, these faction fights, as we may designate them, 
went on chiefly between the two rival leaders, Jbhn who 
controlled the northern portion of the Holy Cit}^ and Simon 
who ruled in the southern and^outh- western districts. John 
was upheld by an army of twenty thousand Idumajans, who 
had, through treachery, gained access to the temple ; while Sim- 
on was sustained by large numbers of Sicarii, or robbers, • whose 
leader he had been before; he became a power in Jerusalem. 
And thus, while the Romans raised a wall around the city, outside 
of its own walls, so as to prevent the besieged from foraging in 
the country round about, these two tyrants and their followers 
plundered the rich citizens within of their wealth, and seized 
upon the stores of provisions seci'eted by those who were lucky 
enough to secure them. While the sword claimed its victims, 
its daily sacrifice on the walls and in the trenches, the gaunt 
monster hunger devoured its holocausts in the streets and in 
the houses. So great was the suffering that men snatched the 
food from the mouths of their children ; mothers forgot na- 
ture’s ties and ate their babes. One hundred and fifteen thous- 
and, eight hundred and eighty dead bodies, victims of hunger 


A REJECTED LOVER. 


21 


w€re carried out of one gate during six months ; while more 
than six hundred thousand in all perished of famine during the 
the entire siege. During the first month of the war the Jews 
made frequent and vigorous sorties, often succeeding in driv- 
ing the Romans back to their own defences, and in this way 
they diverted their enemy’s attention while they secured food 
in an opposite direction ; but as the siege was pressed these 
sallies became fewer though more furious, and were as a rule 
fraught with little success. Therefore the famine increased, 
and oftenthnes whole families were found dead in their homes 
by neighbors ^who had 'not, strength enough left to carry them 
out for burial. 

Pressed by the state^ of things, Simon had resolved on 
another sortie : not that he hoped to secure food,’| but simply 
to divert into other channels the attention of the people, 
who spoke of nothing and dreamt of nothing — when they 
slept — but bread. He had settled the preliminaries, and was 
returning to his palace which was the tower Phasselus — one of 
the three built by King Herod — when he met and greeted 
Cyprian, the brother of Irene, just under the casement, where 
we saw her in chapter the first, standing with her cousin. 
“ Well met, young Greek” was his salute to the tall, straight 
and slender youth who evidently did not seek nor relish this 
encounter. “ Have you seen your sister to-day and what 
answer does she deign to bestow to our proposition.” He 
said this with ironical blandness. “ Methinks,” he continued, 
“ she will at length yield to our advances.” As the defender 
of the southern portion of the beleaguered city addressed these 
words to Cyprian, he fixed his savage eye upon the young man 
who almost quailed .under the look; for Simon was a man 
whose steady gaze few men would face. Born in that part of 
the hilly country of Persea which had centuries before been allot- 
ted by Moses to the tribe of Gad,he was inured from childhood 
to every kind of hardship and fatigue, and took delight in the 
wildest freaks of daring and wanton cruelty which his extraor- 
dinary strength and powerful frame enabled him to perpetrate 
with impunity. This disposition which made him at once an 
object of admiration or of hate throughout Peraea, Samaria and 
Juda3a brought about him a number of followers, who, while as 
cruel, mischievous and daring as he, yet recognised him as their 


22 ' IRENE OF CORINTH. 

chief by that instinctive law — common alike to man and brute 
— which pays homage to superior physical strength. To say 
that these men had all the ferocity of the more modern bandit 
without the tinge of gallantry — that glimmering memory of 
manners once acquired — which the genuine bandit is said to 
possess and sometimes even to parade, is not to overdraw 
their character. Simon, the son of Giora, allied himself with 
the Sicarii who had taken possession of Missada, a strongly for- 
tified town south-east of and not far from Jerusalem ; but he 
soon wearied of their inactivity. He collected an army 
twenty thousand strong and ravaged all Palestine, generally 
coming off" victorious over all who opposed him, and especially 
the zealots and Idumaeans. By the treachery of one Jacob, 
he entered the stronghold of the Idumsean territory, and took 
Hebron, a city that claimed a greater antiquity then Memphis, 
and also the exceptional distinctren of having been the abode 
of Abraham after he had quitted Mesopotamia. Now, while 
Simon the Terrible was overrunning the cities of Idumaea some 
of his enemies got possession of his wife and took her to Jeru- 
salem, just previous to the Eoman invasion. The enraged 
husband followed them thither and threatened to destroy the 
city, unless his wife were given back unharmed. His request 
was through fear complied with ; but his fury lasted unabated 
and every inhabitant of the Holy City who fell into his hands 
was instantly and barbarously murdered. . 

Within the city,at this time, and in full possession, was John 
of Gishala, also an adventurer, whom fortune’s tide had cast 
with his body of zealots into supreme command of the de- 
fences. This man had been practising such cruelty on the 
citizens that many sought safety in flight. But no sooner 
did these refugees venture beyond the walls than Simon’s 
vulturfes would swoop down upon them. When matters had 
been in this state for some months, an active conspiracy was 
formed in the city, led by Matthias the High Priest,with whom 
the reader has already had some acquaintance. He was of 
opinion that of the two tyrants Simon would treat the people 
less cruelly ; and with this end in view and perhaps the pros- 
pect of personal gain by the change, he made overtures to the 
robber chief which ended in his admission to the city with a 
commission to drive out the adventurer John. The gates 


A REJECTED LOVER, 


23 


were opened with much solemnity for the robber who prom- 
ised to drive the Romans, already on their way hither, out of 
the country. Dire Nemesis, startling retribution on the peo- 
ple who preferred the robber Barabbas to the King of kings ! 
Simon did not drive out John of Gishala, but confined him 
to the upper city. Then he took care to secure his own des- 
potic authority by force of arms, and treated as his worst en- 
emies the very persons who had been most active in placing 
him in power. In a short time his cruelties and exactions be- 
came so oppressive as to make the people regret the harshness 
of the zealots and their master. 

Is it surprising that Cyprian, a mere youth, should fear such 
a man 1 Is it remarkable that Irene should dread a union with 
the son of such a father 1 Joras was the eldest son of the 
tyrant, tall, gaunt and beardless with heavy features and for- 
bidding eyes, the picture of a desperado and a worthy successor 
to the chief of the Sicarii. Yet this repulsive, brutal creature 
had a heart whose passions and affections were as strong in 
their way as the muscles that knotted about his giant bones. 
He had a heart as had his father; and Simon who abandoned 
a siege on the eve of success, to recover the woman he loved, 
who so many years before had borne him this uncouth boy, 
would fondle the child in his rough hands, allow it to strike 
him in the face, and kiss its childish tears away, after a day 
spent in the defences, or in shedding the innocent blood 
of many another parent’s offspring. Fathomless, devoted, un- 
selfish but ever admirable is the paternal instinct, whether we 
find it in the refined homes of the civilized man or in the unpolish- 
ed breast of the illiterate barbarian ! Now when Joras first saw 
Irene, a strange feeling took hold of him, and blinded him, and 
made him deaf and mute and stupid all at once. In a word 
he fell deeply and unpardonably in love with the polished 
young Corinthian lady. A moment before he saw her he was 
burning with the desire of killing some one who he thought had 
slighted him ; but the hext he was willing to go in quest of his 
enemy and embrace him. This was of course all very foolish 
and stupid ; but who is going to explain the nature of love 
especially in the breast of a savage 1 The savage is a child ; 
and the child must have what he sets his heart on or he will 
cry and repine till he is indulged. To love Irene was to seek 


24 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


her hand in marriage. Joras had had some day dreams of an 
ambitious kind. He was not sure that the Romans would not 
yet tire of the siege, and leave his father in possession of the 
city. Then he . could turn his attention to the complete 
expulsion of John of Gishala, and in 'course of time, he would 
succeed ^asf king to his warrior sire’s ^throne. f^But how nice it 
would be to have a lovely lady for his bride, and so honorable — 
he knew nothing of Irene, but in the light of his love he knew 
she must be a true princess — and some day he would have a 
court equal to Solomon’s. He had a vague idea that Solomon 
was a great king. And so on, and so on, hour after hour, he 
dreamt himself into a fairy land of blissJand beauty, in which 
Irene was always the central figure. It never occurred to 
him, however, that the lady had a will. Such a thing was 
unrecognised in those lands. No one everjheard of a woman’s 
refusing marriage. So he proposed. Alas for his happiness, 
Irene was not to be won by a simple proposal; and moreover, 
he began to fear that she was seeking pretexts for avoiding his 
presence. During the siege by the Homans which followed 
soon after the events recorded above young Joras formed the 
acquaintance of Cyprian, and hoped through her brother to 
reach the heart of the coy lady. Rough and uncouth aS were 
his manners, it was easy to see that the tender passion had on 
him, as on more civilized beings, a softening influence. It had 
not yet come into his head to force the object of his affections 
into acquiescence. Accordingly he wasted on Cyprian much 
attention, and at length introduced him to his father, recom- 
mending him at the same time, to apposition of ^command in 
the army of defence. 

Strange as it may appear in one’'so callous to human senti- 
ment, Simon espoused his son’s cause with all the ardor of a 
young swain ; and when, notwithstanding the importunities of 
the lover, and the qualified pressure brought to bear on her by 
her brother — he acted out of fear of the tyrant — Irene still 
stood aloof, and in the only interview she deigned to give the 
suitor, abruptly told him never to speak to her again on the sub- 
ject, the tyrant becama ifurious, and threatened to strangle 
her, or throw her headless body over the wall, if within three 
days she would not come in person and supplicate pardon. 
“ How impudent of her,” he said, “ to toy with the affections 


A REJECTED LOVER. 


25 


of Simon’s son. She shall kneel here before me,” he roared, 
“and beg to be added/ to the number of my slaves.” Like all 
he was extremely sensitive about his newly acquired 
dignity, and he felt the slight put upon him by Irene’s refusal 
to wed his son ; felt it in his very soul, and was ready to use 
his power to resent it. Simon had of late remarked, that the 
usually prompt and frolicsome Joras was moody and mopish, 
and was continually making blunders. He did not know, nor 
suspect the cause of it, till his son unbosomed himself to him. 
These two were now each other’s only confidants, so little did 
the wily Simon trust to his followers, whose motives and habits 
he judged very properly by the standard of his own. He was 
vexed because his son had allowed his heart to wander so 
indiscreetly, and chaffed him about it mercilessly j but he well 
knew all the while that he was wasting his time, and so ended 
by joining in the crusade against her Corinthian insolence. It 
was already evening of the second day given her to reflect, 
when the meeting described in the opening chapter occurred, 
between the tyrant and Cyprian. “ Methinks she will yield to 
our advances,” he repeated still looking savagely at Cyprian. 
As the young man hesitated, the tyrJnt put the question direct- 
ly as to whether Irene had changed her mind. Mildly, tearfully, 
her brother answered that she was prepared to die rather than 
yield. “ She dies then,” he roared, “ to-morrow night, mark — 
she has still a few more hours to undo her rash act — and by 
Heavens ! no jroman ever resisted me before. If she yields 
not, she shall languish in a dungeon. No ! she shall not die to- 
morrow ; for every ignominy that she shrinks from, shall be 
heaped upon her before sweet death shall come to end her 
sufferings. Dost hear, Greek 1 Go tell her, quick, or thy 
head shall answer for thy tardiness.” Thus ended the 
encounter ; and as the monster abruptly turned to depart, he 
shot one more glance of his protruding eyes at the young man 
that entirely crushed him. Simon dashed away, his right hand 
grasping his sword hilt, his left clenched and occasionally up- 
lifted above his head and shaken menacingly, as if to give 
more force to some heavy imprecation. Meanwhile Cypiian 
stood like one paralysed, with his chin drooping on his breast. 
He turned to leave when ordered by the tyrant, but his head 
swam, the light went out from his eyes, he staggered and was 
B 


26 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


about io fall, when, with a sudden half-unconscious grasp, he 
seized a balluster of the broad staircase *near by, and swung 
round against it for support. During the last part of the 
tyrant’s discourse his tongue clove to his palate, he could find no 
word to utter, and even if he could have spoken, he could say 
nothing that would appease the robber, or avert the fate that 
hung over his sister s head. He might have remained thus for 
hours, if Irene after leaving the bedside of Anna, and gaining 
the street, had not seen his spectral form, and recognised her 
brother. "VVith a suppressed scream she rushed to his side, and 
took hold of his hands, which hung down cold and nerveless 
before him 

Her touch recalled his absent spirit, and in another 'minute 
brother and sister were hurrying on together down the narrow 
streets, in the direction of a densely- wooded grove, that loomed 
up amid the moonlit, white marble dwellings, like a dark cloud 
in winter on the lunar disc. At length they arrived at the 
place of rendezvous upon which they had agreed in the morn- 
ing, not then foreseeing that they would reach it together by 
the light of the moon. Still they pressed on at the same rapid 
pace, till they reached a spot where, on account of the thick- 
ness of the foliage, no ray of moonlight could penetrate ; then, 
breathless and panting, sat down on the withered moss-clad 
trunk of a fallen oak. Cyprian opened the conversation. Heav- 
ing a deep sigh, in order to lighten somewhat his heavy burden, 
he related the details of the interview he had ^ith Simon, and 
the final threat. Cyprian was in doubt whether he ought so to of- 
fend his sister’s delicacy as to tell her all, but it was better she 
should know exactl^^what were the intentions of her persecutors. 
“ You can save yourself all this by yielding and marrying 
Joras,” said Cyprian, faintly, and hardly daring to utter such 
a sentiment, “ he is rich and powerful, and he loves you. It 
will kill me to think what you are suffering, if you fall into his 
father’s hands.” Irene listened with calm attention, only shud- 
dering when he made mention of the prison, into which she 
knew criminals were thrown without respect to age, or rank, or 
sex. She looked forward to death as a happy release from the 
cares of a life which seemed to lengthen, and become less capa- 
ble of endurance with each fresh accumulation of misfortune. 
But the prison ! where death might be outrun by vice, and arrive 


A REJECTED LOVER. 


27 


only in time to remove the shattered fragments of a vessel, from 
which the fragrant odour of virtue had long since departed. It 
was horrible. As if an icy wind had swept her youthful frame, 
her teeth chattered, and she clung in speechless anguish 
to her brother’s arm.- At last she muttered, “ He is not a Chris- 
tian ; come prison, come death, I will not wed one who is not 
of our faith.” Cyprian drew her to him, and kissed her. “ You 
are a martyr,” he said, and his voice choked with a sob. But 
he knew there was no time to be lost in giving vent to feeling, 
whatever consolation it might for the moment impart ; and, mas- 
tering himself afteralong and doubtful struggle, he shook himself 
free from his sister’s vice-like grip, and, springing up, addressed 
her in this way. “ My dear sister, if we put our trust in Grod, He 
will not leave us orphans. The lion- was terrible -looking to 
Samson, but God saved him, and he found a honeycomb in its 
mouth. We are now dealing with a lion, and a like issue will 
come of the fight.” His words quieted Irene, who had always 
put her trust in God, and prepared her to take counsel as 
to the best means of escape from her impending danger. First 
they debated the possibility of successfully bribing the guards 
to allow them both to climb over the walls. Then they recol- 
lected that the Romans were putting to the sword all such 
fugitives. Of course they were Greeks, and would, doubtless, 
if their word were taken, be spared the fate of Hebrews, but 
this was only a chance, a great risk. However, this was the 
night for the sortie ! “ That upsets everything,” said Cyprian, 
with a sigh, when he. ad verted to it : “I can, I must go out with 
the soldiers, to attack the enemy in their works ; but you, 
Irene, you cannot accompany us, and even if you should do so, 
and attempt to cross over to the other side, you would be most 
certainly slain.” “ I would rather,” said Irene, with passionate 
energy, and clasping her hands on her breast. “ I would rather 
. fall into the hands of the Roman troops, and meet certain death, 
than into Simon’s, to rot in his dungeons. Q, my brother,” she 
continued, throwing her arms about his neck, “ let us go out. 
Let me accompany you with the soldiers ; and if die we must, 
let us die together.” For a while they were silent. The alter- 
native Irene had chosen was, doubtless, desperate, but perfectly 
natural, and her brother interposed no objection : but she was 


28 


IRENE OF CORINTH; 

not destined, chaste soul, to escape from the web woven around 
her by that wily and brutal Simon. 

The sortie was fixed for the hour of .midnight. Might not 
the tyrant, in the haste and anxiety of the preparations, forget 
such a trifle as the imprisonment of a woman. Even if he 
would remember this trifle, could not her brother rescue her, 
and convey her to a hiding place without the walls, amid the 
confusion usually attending these frequent sallies ? Thus they 
mused in silence, the current of their thoughts running on with 
lightning rapidity, and the most diflicult and intricate plans, 
brightened by the light of their hopes, seemed easy of accom- 
plishment. In a word, they concluded — at least Irene did — 
that they were quite safe indeed, already, so to speak, out of 
danger. Suddenly the oppression of the darkness, and the 
silence of the wood, stole upon them, and the dismal hooting of 
an owl, sent a shudder to their quick-beating hearts, that for 
an instant left them breathless. The moon had disappeared be- 
hind a long heavy mass of sable clouds, thus intensifying the 
gloom into something like palpable darkness, and the heavy 
dew-drops fell upon the dry leaves, at inconstant intervals, 
from the drooping boughs above and around them. It was time 
to return home. 

They had hardly made a dozen steps in that direction, when 
a hideous laugh, at no great distance, once more made them 
pause, and seemed to freeze the very blood in their veins. Who 
has not, some time in his Hfe, experienced this sickening feel- 
ing 1 Who that has felt his little scheme or secret to be un- 
veiled at the very moment when he supposed it buried deepest 
and for ever from the light, and out of the sight and hearing of 
men, has ever forgotten the feeling of consternation that took 
possession of him upon making the discovery ? Picture then, 
dear reader, if you can, the acute sufifering of Cyprian, and the 
withering anguish of Irene, when they thought that their 
plans were overheard by some one who would perhaps divulge 
them. Such moments are trying ; and it may be that the pain 
compressed into them is as great as that of death itself — per- 
haps even greater. Making the sign of the cross, as the early 
Christians were taught tp do on all occasions of danger or im- 
portance, Cyprian and his sister stood still, not daring to move 
a step lest that by so doing they would fall into the hands of 


A KEJECTED LOVER. 


29 


enemies. Irene nestled closer to her brother, When the first 
laugh was followed in a few seconds — it seemed an age to them 
— by another and a third, which echoed and re-echoed weirdly 
through the copse, and died away slowly on the thickening air. 
Then there was an ominous rustling of broken branches, a 
crumpling of withered leaves and bark, as slow and heavy foot- 
steps — of whom they knew not — pressed the soil, and a sepul- 
chral voice, which seemed to be wafted on slimy wings, and . 
beat their ears with a sticky sensation, wailed out in the dark- 
ness, “ Woe, woe to the city ; woe, woe to the Holy Place.” 
It was then, and only then, that the woman paid her tribute 
to fear in a subdued scream ; but tragic as the words were 
which the hidden voice had uttered, they relieved the listeners 
from an awful suspense that might have proved fatal to Irene. 
As it was she breathed freely at once, and, alternating with her 
brother, in a low voice, the petitions of the Lord’s Prayer, con- 
tinued her journey homeward. 

Does it seem strange that Irene recovered so quickly 1 A 
word will unfold the reason. The owner of the mysterious 
voice was a man named Jesus, who had, as Anna reminded her 
father, gone about during seven years crying out, by day and 
by night, these self-same words, notwithstanding the Jews tried 
by violence to restrain him. At last, one day towards the close 
of the siege, he was struck by a stone from a Koman halista, 
and hurled from the wall, exclaiming, “ woe to myself.” The 
Jews dreaded this man, although they looked on him for. the 
most part as insane, as doubtless he was ; but the peculiarity 
of his warning cry was not on this account less mysterious, and 
taken in connection with other untoward happenings about this 
same period, in and about Jerusalem, it certairdy po.ssessed a 
weight which it would be inconsistent with Jewish character not 
to heed. The Christians, on the other hand, far from dreading 
him, regarded this man, mad or not, as another Noah warning 
the people of the coming destruction, foretold forty years pre- 
viously by our Lord. As many of them as could, therefore, mi- 
grated from the city at various times, from the commencement 
of the reign of anarchy there until the coming of the Roman 
legions. While in the city, many of the Christians, converts 
for the most part from Judaism, frequented the temple and kept 
up many observances of the Old Law, to the detriment in some 


. 30 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


cases of their faith, and the annoyance of the Gentile converts ; 
many of them strove hard to effect a compromise between the 
Old and the .New Dispensations, and while they clung tena- 
ciously enough to belief in Jesus as the Messiah, wished to 
enforce on all men the peculiar rites and ceremonies of J udaism. 
Now the time was come to choOse one side or the other, and, 
with the exception of a few, the believers in Christ removed to 
the little town of Pella, a considerable distance from the 
doomed city. Here they settled, and watched with interest, 
not unmixed with awe, the progress of the siege, and in the 
midst of hostile neighbours, “ Jewish and Barbarian,” they es- 
tablished their colony, in which no one owned any property, 
and every one worked for the good of the community. All pro- 
perty was held in trust, and the poor were fed from the abun- 
dance of the rich, who, upon their conversion, gave up to the 
Deacons the administration of their wealth. 

To return to our young friends. When Irene and her bro- 
ther emerged from the wood, the moon once more stole fitful 
glances at them from behind the dark fleece- trimmed clouds 
that shot across her surface. Thus their way was alternately 
hidden and revealed by the flying lamp in the firmament. As 
they entered the porch of Matthias’ palace a flambeau shot 
forth a red glare into the darkness from the top of the tower, 
named Mariamne, near the gate of the Essenes ; it was the sig- 
nal for the troops, who were to open the gates and rush out 
upon the besiegers. When it disappeared there could be heard 
the subdued tramp of many feet ; not regular, like that of a 
well-trained body, but confused, for no regular discipline was 
observed by the defenders of the city. No matter how quietly 
each one of a large number of men may tread on a stony walk 
the combined effect is very loud, and resembles the falling of 
water in the distance from a great height. But there was no 
sound of voices, no shouting, no whispering; this was forbid- 
den under penalty of death. Here and there, however, a torch 
made a faint momentary impression on the gloom and disap- 
peared — this was but seldom. The men massed themselves in 
the street and the square, near the gate from which the sortie 
was to be made — they were about five hundred in number — 
and awaited the opening of the trellis and the removal of the 
barricade. Now, just as everything was in readiness for the 


A REJECTED LOVER, 


31 


attack, an event occurred which would have been most favor- 
able to the besieged, perhaps have changed the event of the 
war if its nature had not been misunderstood. As it was, it 
caused the sortie to be postponed ; and an opportunity, one of 
those so rare in the fortune of wafr, was lost beyond hope of re- 
covery. In order to approach the walls encompassing the city, 
it was necessary to fill up the valleys or moats with banks con- 
structed of earth and trunks of trees, which were cut down and 
hauled from a distance of twelve to fifteen miles. In this man- 
ner an inclined way was made from the Roman camp to the 
foundations, almost, of the city walls. On the trend of this 
embankment were placed the balistse, or engines for casting 
large stones, and the battering rams — a name given to enor- 
mous beams fitted on one end with an iron head, swung in the 
centre from a derrick-shaped frame, and worked with destruc- 
tive force against the Walls by men covered with a testudo, 
that is a row of shields. As the Jews, from their advanta- 
geous position on the walls, hurled down darts and stones upon 
the Romans, who worked these machines and wrought great 
Lavoc among them, Titus, with strategic foresight constructed 
lofty towers, sheated on the outside with iron, and had them 
moved so near the walls as to overlook them. In these towers 
heplaced a number of men who, from little windows near the 
top, while themselves perfectly protected, hurled javelins at 
the Jews, who sought to attack or beat off the legions working 
the battering-rams. This 'premised, we come to the accident 
which disturbed Simon’s plans. The Roman troops, fatigued 
by the labours of the day, were enjoying the sweet repose that 
nature refuses to the idler, but pours upon the brows of those 
who loil, when all at once a rumbling sound, followed by a ter- 
rific crash, brought every man to his feet, and every hand to a 
sword-hilt. Within and without the walls that awful sound 
was heard reverberating far over the hills and plains, but 
the darkness forbade successful inquiry into the real cause. A 
superstitious dread fell upon both Jews and Gentiles. The- 
former, who could have availed themselves of the dismay of 
their enemies to annihilate them, retreated silently to their 
quarters, not daring to look back lest the fate of Lot’s wife 
should overtake them ; while the Romans passed the watch- 
word from one to another, to' ensure the presence of friends, or 


32 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


detect that of enemies. They clajnored around the tents of 
the centurions, their officers, who in turn entreated Titus to 
offer an explanation. The general soon discovered the cause of 
their fright. Going about the wall, he found that one of bis 
best-built towers, the masterpiece of months of engineering had 
suddenly collapsed and gone to pieces — how, he could not tell. 
He quieted the disorder and calmed the fears of the cohorts, 
appearing among them in person; but suspecting a Jewish 
ambush, he doubled the guards and retired to his tent ; and 
while regretting the partial failure of his plans, thanked his 
favorite Apollo that the loss was far from irreparable. 



CHAPTER III. 



WITHIN THE WALLS. 

ORNING broke with a gleeful smile on the raging 
bosom of the Icarian Sea, imparting to the rock-bound 
coast of Cos a reflection of its gladness, and the young 
sunlight danced with fairy-like steps upon the snowy crests of 
the bounding waters. High above the angry surf, in a plea- 
sant grove, the dewy leaves of the date and fig-tree greeted 
their king, and the rosebud oped its fragrant lips to speak its 
homage to the god of day. In that grove an empress sat, 
whose realm was a human heart. * Yet a night cloud sat on 
her fair brow, and its weight smote a chill into her soul. Sud- 
denly her eyes which had been watching the heave and clang- 
ing of the waves as they broke heavy and vanquished on the 
crags beneath, fastened on a white speck away in the ofiing. 
It was a sail. How her heart leaped and her breath came 
short and fast as it approached ; for she knew it brought him for 
whom she was waiting. It grew rapidly in size ; it luffed, it 
jibed and tacked, now half-hidden, now skimming aloft on 
billowy wings. A form appears on the deck, it waves a signal, 
and the craft reaches a little bay where a wooded peninsula 
hides it from her sight. In another moment she is in her lover’s 
presence. The night cloud of suspense falls from her brows; 
the sun of her joy has risen. Three months before this, a 
merchant’s bark was dashed to ruin on this coast. A single 
victim reached the shore alive and sank exhausted and senseless 
on the sand. A Jewish maiden, whose father dwelt hard by, 
discovered him, revived him, nursed him and, as is usual in 
such cases, loved him. He was a Greek and a Christian, and 
one of the first disciples of St. Paul ; but he returned the love 
of his benefactress and avowed it. Her father, a rich and 


34 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


proud old Pharisee, would not hear of the alliance, and the 
lovers parted in tears. He promised to return to the island in 
three months with a new ship to take her back with him to 
his home in Corinth. Every day during those long months 
the maid visited the spot where last they parted, and taking a 
jewelled ring, the pledge of his love, from her bosom — she 
durst not wear it on her finger — she would kiss it, and with a 
prayer for his safety tenderly replace it. 

The time for his return was up ; and from the stern rocks 
the maiden looked in vain for a sail. Three days more had 
passed and still he was not come. As she gazed on the chang- 
ing tide a pang shot through her soul ; it was momentary, but 
few such would kill. Her love altered not : would his ever 
change 1 She shuddered and put away the phantom. It is per- 
haps, unnecessary to say that she fancied him often dying on some 
other island shore, as she once found him, or at the bottom of 
the voracious deep. Such thoughts will rise up unbidden. On 
the fourth day, which he was overdue, she went forth to watch 
for her beloved and he came. We saw him landing. Another 
month, and a young Greek merchant Xanthus by name and 
Eebecca a Jewish maid of Cos stood before the Christian hymen- 
eal altar in Corinth and mutually pledged their vows of love and 
fidelity. These events happened twenty years before the date 
at which our story opens. Their union was blessed with sev- 
eral boys, the eldest of whom they called Cyprian — the reader 
has already made his acquaintance — and when, five years later, 
spring came laughing through the woods, babbling in the 
brooks and conjuring from the moistened earth its hidden floral 
treasures, Eebecca presented to the rejoicing Xanthus a flower 
more beautiful, more delicate than ever graced the verdant 
meadows ; and he named the flower Irene. During the perse- 
cution of the Christians by Nero, Xanthus who never had in 
him the material of which martyrs are made, fled his native 
country and wandered from city to city, during many years in 
. Asia Minor, in Palestine and in Egypt. Eeturning from Alex- 
andria with his wife and his only living children Cyprian and 
Irene, a great longing came over Eebecca to visit the Holy City. 
N ever before had Xanthus opposed the wishes of his wife ; this 
one he did resist, but only for a time. The Eomans were al- 
ready hastening to invest the city and on every side there was 


WITHIN THE WALLS. 


35 


sedition, robbery and murder. It was therefore perilous to be 
abroad, and Xanthus tried to impress the fact on Eebecca. 
She wished to visit the Holy Sepulchre and to see her uncle. 
With a strange feeling’, an undefinable apprehension of some 
calamity soon about to fall upon him, he yielded to her desires 
and visited Jerusalem. Soon she discovered the High Priest 
Matthias, her paternal uncle, and presented her husband and 
children. Their stay was necessarily a short one ; and a few 
days before their intended departure, as they walked leisurely 
before the temple, one of the seditious upheavings so numerous 
at this time in Jerusalem, broke about them like a thunder 
cloud. Xanthus wS,s struck down at his wife’s side, the blow 
that felled him first mortally wounding her. The bodies of the 
fallen were thrown without the gates, the dying and the dead 
together in a promiscuous heap. The children, now practically 
orphans, were adopted by their uncle, and after the usual 
seven days mourning for the dead allowed to mix without re- 
straint in society. As the siege had now commenced in ear- 
nest, Cyprian found it impossible to leave the city, though he 
wished to return to Corinth to claim his father’s estate. After 
this digression, which was necessary to explain the relationship 
of Anna and Irene, and to account for Cyprian’s presence in 
Jerusalem, let us return to the subject proper. 

The sun had risen ; his rays first kissed the drooping leaves 
and swaying branches of the trees that fringed the Mount of 
Olives, then flashed joyously upon the snow-white pillars of 
the temple and the golden plates of the fagade, kindling up the 
majestic pile with a dazzling fiery splendor which blinded the 
eye and seemed like a vision of Jehovah’s throne. It was the 
day appointed for the sacrifice of Irene to a tyrant’s malice. 
Who that looked upon the glorious sunrise would believe such 
days were made for deeds of blackness, and yet how many such 
will be wrought before that sun goes down ? From early dawn 
the industrious Romans had been engaged with pick, spade and 
axe clearing away the debris of the fallen tower and making 
preparations for the erection of another on a firmer foundation. 
In the city, on the contrary, all was dull and listless, and the 
lazy soldiers lolled about on the defences, throwing dice, sing- 
ing ditties, telling tales, anything and everything to while 
away the time, which they well knew was hastening them to 


36 


IRENE OF CORINTfl. 


to the end. No one seemed to notice the chance that wa^ lost 
the previous night, and no one seemed to care much either — : 
save Simon, who sat moodily in his room all the morning. 
'‘Ben,” said a huge and only half-clad fellow, addressing a 
sleepy comrade, “ I’ll bet you we shall drop into the caves be- 
fore the moon of EIul loses her horns.” “ Why in the caves ?” 
queried, the other rubbing his eyes and averting them from 
the rays of a July sun. “ Well, Gorgas says he overheard 
Simon swear by God — and he doesn’t believe in one.” “ What 
did he swear,” said the other yawning, “ that’s what I want to 
hear.” “ Don’t interrupt me and I’ll tell you, you dog,” re- 
plied Ben, drawfng his knees up to his chtn and clasping his 
hands around them. “ He swore he would go into the monu- 
ments and dig his way out, so as not to fall into the hands of 
Titus, once the legions should get into the lower city.” 
“ Don’t believe it,” answered Ben laconically, “ I’ll wager you 
fifty shekels Simon will die game, and fifty more that we’ll 
hold out three months.” “ Taken,” said the giant, as he 
stretched himself in the sun, and made a wicked thrust with his ’ 
dagger at a big fly that buzzed provokingly around his ears. 
This proceeding seemed to amuse the fly ^hich buzzed louder 
than before, and the soldiers, who set up a jeering laugh at the 
expense of the now languid and growling gambler. Gorgas 
came up on the instant and was appealed to by half a dozen 
voices at once to verify or deny the statement of* Gad. “ He 
told the truth,” said he, and forthwith began to relate 
his own experience of Josephus^at Jotapata, and to rail at the 
cowardice of leaders in bulk when Simon himself was seen ap- 
• piioaching. The conversation was quickly changed into ano- 
ther channel as the tyrant drew near, for the men well knew his 
vindictive nature. “ Gorgas,” said he, addressing that decrier 
of superiors^ “ go to the house of Matthias at noon and bring 
me a young wolf, they call Irene. If the priest objects, bring 
him too. I don’t like him anyway. Mark, if Irene escapes,” he 
went on, raising his harsh voice, “ I’ll flay thee and then roast 
thee, dost thou hearl” Gorgas heard, and he knew that 
Simon always meant what he said ; so with a timid look and 
bow he replied that he heard and the tyrant passed on. “ A 
nice commission that Gorg.” said Dan, whose voluptuous lips, 
more than his watery eyes, told what was passing in his mind. 


WttttiN THE walls. 


37 


“ She is a Corinthian, that Irene," put in Gad, who was aware 
of the infamous morals of the Corinthians. “ She is a Chris- 
tian,” retorted Gorgas, who was, perhaps, angry at the fact, 
“and among them immorality is unheard of. Simon may bill her, 
but she will look upon death as a glorious martyrdom.” 
“You’ll look odd when you’ll be roasted, Gorgas,” said a sol- 
dier with only one eye, who retreated behind a pillar as he 
said it, followed by an angry look and an oath from the officer. 
“ Well, tell us about Josephus/’ said Dan, who thought more 
of winning a mina than a dozen women ; “ go on and never 
mind that one-eyed idiot” “ As I was saying then,” replied 
Gorgas, “ these men are all cowards. They fight when they 
can’t help it ; they make others do the work and they take the 
credit ; they torture poor women — like enough Simon will 
flay and roast this Irene.” “ And you with her,” said One-eye 
behind the pillar. “ Then they’ll skulk away and hide when all 
is lost.” “ True, true,” cried all in chorus. “ You all know,” 
resumed Gorgas, “how Josephus was appointed by the nation to 
defend Galilee and how he held Jotapata against Vespasian’s 
best troops.” They nodded affirmatively. He continued, 
“ J osephus managed things well for a long time ; he provided 
water and fodder by covering men with sheepskins .” — “ What 
will he cover you with,” said the persistent joker again, peep- 
ing out from behind the column ] “ You’ll — ” But he didn’t, 

finish the sentence, for half-a-dozen daggers laid him low on 
the instant; when, as if nothing had happened, Gorgas went on 
with his narrative. “ He had them covered with skins and 
sent them outside the walls towards the fountains. The le- 
gions mistaking them for grazing sheep left them to do their 
work unmolested. When he wished to build the walls higher, 
he protected his men from the stones and darts of the Romans, 
by hanging in front of them fresh hides which caught the mis- 
siles or lessened their force. When the rams began to play 
upon the walls — poor walls they were too — not like these with 
their solid ten foot marble blocks,” and he nodded toward the 
high rampart, “ he let down bags of chaff which deadened the 
blows, and poured down boiling oil upon those who came up 
with scaling ladders. At length there were so few left in the 
city— there were some killed every day — that the same men 
had to fight by day and watch by night, and the guards 


38 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


overcome with sleep and hunger usually fell asleep at their 
posts.” “It was a brave defence,” said several together. 
“ Brave if you like,” replied Gorgas, “ but who made it ? ” 
“Aye, aye, that’s it,” shouted the hearers. “We made it, the 
soldiers made it, not the leader, who only urged them, urged 
them uselessly as he knew from the start. At last a deserter 
told Vespasian of the condition of things with us, and Titus, 
who now blocks us in, Sabinus, and some few others, acting on 
the suggestion of the traitor came into the sleeping city with a 
handful of troops. By Esau’s hair ! comrades,” and Gorgas 
struck the pavement with his heel, “ if Josephus was a man, even 
then, he could have vanquished them.” “He was a coward,” 
said a number in chorus. ‘.‘But he hid himself (Gorgas did not 
mind the interruption) yes, he hid in a cave with a few faithful 
followers — faithful to him — until an old hag found him out 
and betrayed him.” “A precious ^ hag,” said Gad, “she de- 
served a reward.” “ Why could he not die like a man 1 ” said 
the others. “ N o, he got off free, how was that ? and is now 
an honorable man, a guest of the Emperor’s son ! ” “ It was 

but yesterday,” said Dan, “ that he came up here to the very 
walls asking us to follow his cowardly example and surrender 
before it would be too late.” Here the others shook their fists 
or their daggers menacingly, and one expressed a wish to be 
able to reach Josephus on some such occasion and “bleed him.” 
“ Simon will prove another Josephus,” explaimed Gox'gas, “ and 
fifty at least of your shekels, Ben, will change hands.” All 
laughed save Ben, who griped hard his scrip, saying merely, “ I 
stick to my wager,” and producing a dice box, rattled it vigor- 
ously and challenged the crowd to play for two oboli a throw. 
Gorgas, shading his eyes with his hand and looking at the sun, 
got up hastily from the pedestal of a fluted granite column on 
which he was sitting and strolled away, keeping close to the 
houses which lined the narrow streets, and wondering if he 
would escape, with his hide intact, from the hands of Simon. 
It was nearly noon, and he bent h^s way towards the home of 
Irene, whose name lingered in his mind' since he had heard it, 
with the melancholy sweetness of a half-forgotten melody, and, 
contrary to it's signification, destroyed his peace of mind.* 


*The Greek word Irene means peace. 


WITHIN THE WALLS. 


“ Thy name is Peace,” he murmured, “ yet it banishes peace 
from me. I would do much to save thee ; but I must not lose 
my hide and be roasted for the benefit of his majesty Simon, 
son of Giora ! ” So hastening his steps, he sped on his 
awkward errand. 



CHAPTER IV. 

THE LAST OF THE HIGH PRIESTS. 

“ 0 wretch, without a tear, without a thought, 

Save joy above the ruin that thou hast wrought — 

The time shall come, nor long remote, when thou 
Shalt feel far more than thou afflictest now ; 

Feel for thy vile self -loving self in vain. 

And turn thee howling in unpitied pain.” — Byron. 

S HE reader will remember that just as the High Priest 
Matthias was maltreating his daughter for professing 
her belief that Jesus was the Messias, a messenger sum- 
moned him away. Doffing his ephod and buckling on a short 
sword, he quitted the hous6 straightway, all the while heaping 
curses, in a low voice, on his recreant offspring. “She has learned 
this infamy from her cousins ! " thought he, “ and — I will make 
away with them.” Buthp feared the consequences of open action. 
He knew of the love borne Irene by the young Joras ; but he 
was not aware of the terrible alternative offered her in case she 
refused to marry him. He fell then to plotting how he could 
most securely rid himself of her and her brother ; and resolved 
to favor the suit of Simon’s son with his authority as the 
lady’s uncle. “ I thought he would wed my daughter,” said 
the schemer, half aloud, “ but that failing he shall have my 
niece. In any event I shall profit,” and he laughed into his 
grizzly beard. “ If he is to reign for only another day — and 
that will be the most of it if my plans succeed — he shall have 
Irenej and when he falls, I can deal with her unscathed. She 
has turned my child’s head already, curse her Abraham ! and 
they must be separated.’’ Occupied with these thoughts he 
reached the house of Macarias, a Wealthy citizen, who dwelt 
near Helwi’s monuments. In the vestibule he met a dozen 
othe^, all formerly men of wealth and worth, conversing in 




THE LAST OF THE HIGH PRIESTS. 41 

low tones and looking watchful and nervous as men do when 
they have on hand something difficult or dangerous of execu- 
tion, and are apprehensive of ill success or fearful of betrayal. 
They advanced across the peristyle and entered the dining- 
hall on the left. The room was large. Its walls and floor 
were of polished marble of various hues, its ceiling of citron 
wood also highly polished and carved, but having marks of 
recent vandalism, the many rents and scratches showing where 
the gold and ivory had once been inlaid. In the centre of the 
room stood an uncovered marble-topped semi circular table, 
around which, reaching from one end to the other on the con- 
vex side, was a low form of carved cedar, with here and there 
a shred of damask hanging from it (held by a broken nail), a 
relic of what upholstering was there, before tyrants had 
stripped the rich of their wealth and the poor of their food. On 
the table were a few wooden dishes, several amphoras filled with 
water, not as of old with wine, a few small loaves of blackish 
bread, and some olives and figs. Certainly no Spartan, fresh 
from the Phiditia, would envy the board of the once rich Maca- 
rias. Ceremonies were laid aside, except that the priest washed 
his hands before seating himself, reclining rather, to the frugal 
meal. The meal began and progressed in silence, none, not 
even the host, being willing to speak. There were present 
men of various ages, seemingly, from twenty-five to fifty ; but 
all prematurely pinched, wrinkled and gray-haired, so that the 
difference of their ages could with difficulty be noted. The 
repast ended, the doors were shut, and a watch set to guard 
against intruders. The High Priest was first to speak. “ Fel- 
low men,” he began in a low and husky voice, “ sufferers like 
myself for our country, I have braved the danger of inviting 
you to-day to consider some plan of freeing ourselves from the 
tyrant, who alone now opposes a strong barrier to our peace. 
It were unsafe to meet at my house,” he continued, choking 
down an affected sob, and looking around the board to note 
the effect of his words — “ hence I asked and obtained permis- 
sion of our host the good Macarias (with a bow towards that 
individual) to hold our convention in this dwelling. We were 
all once well off (another sob) ; now we are poor. Simon first 
took our city — fools that we were to invite him into it — now 
he has taken our substance. My desire is to save our city and 
C 


42 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


our temple, the abode of the God of Abraham” — here all 
bowed reverently — “ and all else failing, I believe the Eomans 
themselves will preserve it and us, if we open our gates to them. 
They have often offered us, during this siege, the right hand 
of fellowship, and only yesterday Titus sent our countryman, 
Josephus, to the walls, to assure us of his good will ; but if we 
resist further, and we must, if we — continue — to — obey — Si- 
mon” (his voice dropped into the lowest audible key) “ 0 God of 
our fathers ! I fear to think of the consequences. I had even 
hoped some miraculous delivery was at hand — some new Jud- 
ith”' — here his utterance became choked, and it was some time 
before he was able to proceed — “even till this very evening; but 
now my hopes are faint, and my soul withers away like the 
mown grass within me, with apprehension. And yet I know 
the Most High will save His own. Therefore, 0 my friends 
united by misfortune and a common hope, like David’s follow- 
ers, when the arms of Saul flashed above their heads, let us go 
forth and gather our people, and call on Him whose arm is 
strengthened against us, to turn it upon our enemy : let us in- 
vite the Caesar within our walls.” ' He sat down, that crafty 
priest, who sought himself first in all he did ; but the big tears 
that moistened the furrows of his cheeks and trickled down to 
lose themselves in the wilderness of his beard, made all pre- 
sent, save one, believe that the purest patriotism consumed his 
soul. The one excepted was Macarias, their host ; but when he 
rose to speak, his dissimulation was as perfect as that of Mat- 
thias. He urged the claims of God, of the temple, of the na- 
tion, and of the city, and gave his vote to pass the watchword 
round that very night, and at noon on the morrow to as- 
semble and throw open the gates to the Romans. “ As well,” 
said he, “ may we die in the attempt to benefit our countiy, as 
to wait and die like cravens at the hands of the victors, or, 
what is worse, be carried away into slavery.” He was a diplo- 
matist ; so purely unselfish was the sentiment conveyed in his 
last sentence,thatevery man present sprang to his feet, and throw- 
ing caution to the winds, cheered the speaker to the echo. The 
conspirators agree on a password, the work is to begin at once, 
and at noon to-morrow the city will be saved. And Simon ] 
They dispersed singly, or in twos, in order to avoid suspicion ; 
for Simon had his minions everywhere, and so had John of 


THE LAST OF THE HIGH PRIESTS. 


43 


Gishala. When the priest came out into the street, his brow 
was hot and his throat parching from over-excitement. He 
stumbled against something that lay directly in his path, and 
shuddered as he stooped to find it was a corpse. He would 
be defiled if he touched it, so he went round it and hurried on. 
Was it an omen 1 He had not time to reflect, he hurried on. 
As he turned into the street leading to his own house, the 
stars were up and the moon raced through the silver-edged 
clouds. His daughter was peaceafully slumbering in her room, 
and his nephew and niece were plotting in the grove yonder, to 
baffle'the wickedness of the same tyrant whom he had been 
conspiring to overthrow. What a world for plotting is this ! 
Perhaps Simon was engaged maturing a plot too at this hour ; 
and Titus and every one of his subordinates, one or more plots 
each. But which, or how many of them will issue just as the 
conspirators wish? Happy are they who predict their own 
• success. How few men or women in the world weigh the dif- 
ficulties of an undertaking in which they have determined to 
embark ? The bright side is with them ever uppermost, the 
sea of their enterprise is to their vision without a wave, a 
quicksand, or a lurking crag. The sheen of the success, which 
they already lay hold of by anticipation, so blinds them that 
they cannot see the vortex of failure, yawning to receive and 
anxious to submerge them. As Matthias entered his bed-cham- 
ber and threw himself upon his couch he chuckled. “ I brought 
in Simon,” he said to himself, “to crush John, and thus to ele- 
vate myself. It failed. I sought to make my daughter a 
Judith — the sight of her would perplex, defeat the enemy — 
and I would be honored as the father of my country, the 'sa- 
vior of the city, that failed too. My nephew and his sister 
were the obstacle there. But now, by Aaron’s rod ! (he actu- 
ally swore thus) I will succeed. The Romans shall enter to- 
morrow, and I rule in Jerusalem. Ah, Simon, said he aloud, 
“ you despise the man who made you what you are, ungrateful 
dog ; but to-morrow I’ll trample you under my feet.” And the 
High Priest so forgot far his unapproachable dignity as to leap 
up and dance round the room, cutting the awkwardest possible 
figure. Then suddenly recollecting himself, through force of 
habit, he lay down again as demurely as if he had been caught, 
by a crowd of people, executing his gyrations. But his thoughts 


44 IRENEJoF CORINTH. 

ran on in the same vein, till sleep put an end to his waking 
fancies, and replaced them with dreams full of hideous forms 
and oppressive ogres. First he dreamt of armies plodding 
through a soil wet with rain and human blood,dragging with them 
waggons laden with provisions, for the relief of the besieged. 
How his palate itched as he beheld the viands, and smelt the 
gladdening wine. As they approached the gates, John of Gis- 
hala, clad in priestly robes and wearing a crown of gold, rushed 
down from the steps of the temple and attacked those who 
were about to open the gates. As he neared them he slipped 
on the marble walk, fell and was stunned, and Matthias, strik- 
ing him a heavy blow with a broken spade, took away his gold- 
en crown to place it on his own head. Then with the usual 
protean variation characteristic of dreams the soldiers had 
vanished, or become oxen, approaching the altar for sacrifice. 
The fires were in order, but he could not find the sacrificial 
knife ; and when it was at last brought to him, instead of the • 
ox he was about to strike, his daughter Anna stood before him ; 
he had himself been metamorphosed into Abraham, and Simon 
was hastening towards him, a menace overspreading his coun- 
tenance. He turned and fled from the temple, but was met 
and held by Macarias. Again he dreamt that he stood on the 
outer wall of the city, brandishing a sword and eloquently har- 
anguing the multitude which stood bare-headed in the sun, 
hanging reverently on the words of his lips, and ever and anon 
hailing him as the High Priest who had saved his country 
and the Holy City. All at once a great wind arose, and blew 
him head-long down into the brook of Cedron ; but so deep 
was it that it seemed he would never reach the bottom. Again 
all was changed. He was seated on the temple, no longer a 
man but an angel, the guardian of the city and the temple. 
John of Gishala and Simon of Gerasa were lying dead, on the 
pavement in the shape of dogs ; the people knelt before him, 
and even the Roman legions were prostrate in his presence. 
Suddenly a flash of lightning appeared in the north, and began 
to circle the heavens like a monstrous serpent. Its length be- 
came greater every instant until its coils were numberless. 
Then the coils began to grow rapidly narrow and narrower, 
and to approach him. The head of the fiery serpent assumed 
a human face : it was the dreaded Simon’s. A terrific clap of 


THE LAST OF THE HIGH PRIESTS. 


45 


thunder shook the city like an earthquake, the serpent coiled 
himself about the angel, and Matthias fell from the roof of the 
temple. 

Bathed in a cold perspiration and trembling in every limb, 
the High Priest awoke to find himself on the floor and to hear 
muffled voices throughout the house. The night lamp was ex- 
tinguished and darkness reigned within and without. Every 
one was awake; the vestibules and streets were filled with 
anxious groups of people, fruitlessly inquiring after the cause 
of the dreadful noise that brought them in such haste from 
their beds into the streets. The soldiers who were about to 
make the sortie, were also rushing by in all directions, tramp- 
ling on some and running their swords through others, who 
happened in their confusion to intercept their flight. The 
reader knows it was the fall of the Roman tower that caused 
the commotion, and lent such an .uncanny ending to the dream 
of the High Priest. Still shuddering at the recollection of that 
dream in spite of his best attempts to get rid of it, he returned 
to his room and having relighted his lamp, began to arrange 
some scraps of parchment which lay in little heaps here and 
there upon a marble table. What was it that caused his hand 
to tremble so ? Why did he take a key from a secret place and 
open a drawer, then close it hastily and turn about to listen, 
and finally re-open it and take out some letters and a locket 1 
Why does he put back the letters and kiss the locket — only a 
gold trinket with a lock of hair — and the lips quiver — a shake 
of the head, the fall of a tear; what, a genuine tear shed by 
that hardened old man ? ’Tis true. He cannot explain why ; 
but that relic of the wife he married and lost when still a 
young man would come into his mind at this time. He had to 
look at it, and a whirlwind of memories sweeps his soul, and 
he falls on his knees and — what then ? Does he repent those 
vile ambitions and vain plottings that usury and avarice, that 
neglect of duty, and pandering to the world’s taste, those rash 
judgments and cruel injustices, perpetrated on his weak subor- 
dinates, that abhorrence of study, that seeking of self, that re- 
fusal to bow to the truth which often courted his acceptance, 
the truth that Jesus was the Christ ? Ah, no 1 “ Too late,” he 
said, jumping up and putting away the trinket with the 
thoughts it brought along ; “ how weak I am. No danger 


46 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


threatens me ; death is still far off. Courage my soul, these 
tears ill-become the future lord of Jerusalem.” Matthias is 
not the only sinner who has acted similarly. 

Next morning early, Irene visited her cousin’s room, and 
after performing with her their customary devotions, made 
known the danger she was in of being thrown into the com- 
mon dungeon, among criminals of every description. Anna’s 
bright eyes were turned upon her, with a yearning look that 
needs only be seen to be interpreted, and their lustre was 
magnified tenfold, by the glistening tears which stood in them 
unbidden. “ Irene, dearest cousin,” she said, “ let me go with 
you to prison or to death ; nothing shall ever separate us : I 
cannot live without you.” Irene was touched by the simple 
and sincere girlish effusion of her relative ; but she checked 
the sob, and said decisively — almost sternly, “ it cannot be, my 
cousin, you may not enter the race towards martyrdom, though 
you bear your present bruises well, until the waters of Bap- 
tism shall have purified you. Put your trust in our Lord, and 
He will preserve your faith.” There was a look of resignation, 
tinged with disappointment, in the tear-stained eyes, as Anna 
answered, “ I will try. Lord help me.” For several hours they 
remained together undisturbed, each giving the other what 
consolation was in her power. At last, Irene said thoughtfully, 
“ to-night Simon will arrest me, but I may escape before that. 
Cyprian is on the alert — Hush ! Did you hear a knock t ” 
Anna had not heard anything. Again the sound was heard, 
and Matthias opened the door of the apartment. His eyes 
wandered uneadly from Irene to his daughter, and from her 
to the tesselated floor, then back again to Irene, as if he was 
uncertain how to set about the delivery of his errand. Irene 
at length relieved his suspense ; for, though he was a man — 
the stronger vessel ! — and she a woman, he an old priest, she 
a mere child, he trembled while he stood there before her, as a 
convict might, whom a judge was going to sentence, or a slave 
before a cruel master. Again, why, he knew not ; but he was 
at least conscious that he was about to perpetrate on his own 
niece a dastardly outrage. That she had made his daughter a 
Christian (touched his own conscience?) was the crime that 
first aymed him against her, and he was meditating the de- 
tails of his revenge, when Gorgas came at noon to do the work 


THE LAST OF THE HIGH PRIESTS. 


47 


of his master. The minion did not tell Matthias, that resist- 
ance, on his part, would involve him too in ruin ; he withheld 
that part of his order for the present, and found it unnecessary 
afterwards. Matthias was, of course, profusely polite. He 
was delighted to be of service to the majesty of Simon, he said, 
and hastened to Irene’s chamber to deliver her up at once. She 
was not there ; so he went over to his daughter’s apartments, 
and it was his knock at her own door that Irene had detected 
when she asked Anna if she had heard anything. As the 
priest approached, the nature of his act began to show itself * 
in all the hues of its villainous deformity, to his warped and 
seared conscience. To give up his niece, his adopted daughter ; 
and to a monster, and for what purpose 1 Even he sickened 
at the thought, and indecision tempted him. When he stood 
in her presence — and such a presence, so young, so pure, so 
amiable — he was absolutely speechless. But her sweet voice 
restored him. “ Uncle,” she said, “ which of us is it you seek V’ 

“ A visitor,” he replied in husky tones, “ awaits you below : 
follow me.” She arose and left the room without so much as 
looking at Anna, as she was unaware that the tyrant had short- 
ened the time given her to choose ; and yet, they were then 
parting, never, perhaps, to meet again on earth. Who knows 1 . 
perhaps it was better their parting was thus ; for the pent-up 
feelings of the novice, had she suspected the truth, would have 
broken out uncontrollably, and created fresh difficulties for her- 
self and cousin. Yet as Irene went out she heard Anna say, 
quite audibly, “ Who knows whether we shall ever meet again.” 

As soon as she reached the ground floor where Gorgas was 
standing, the whole truth flashed upon her. She begged hard 
to return and see Anna for one moment, one instant, to kiss 
her good-bye. But this request was refused her, by the cau- 
tion of the officer, and the cruelty of her uncle, who stifled 
the mutterings of his conscience with the answer, that on. to- 
morrow he would Inmself open all the prisons. “ Then I 
shall send her back to her own country with her brother,” he 
mused. How often do men thus stifle the>vofbe of right rea- 
son, which would restrain them, by assuring themselves they 
will hereafter make atonement for the sin they are presently 
bent on committing. “ God help me,” said the martyr with a 
sigh, and turning to her uncle, “ good-bye”, she muttered, yet 


48 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


could not put out her hand to him, far less embrace him, for 
she seemed to read his treachery in that bloodshot eye. Then 
drawing down the veil which covered her head and shoulders, 
so as to conceal her features entirely, and fastening it under her 
girdle, she submitted, without a word, to be manacled and led 
forth into the street. Hither and thither crowds of armed men 
were hieing ; and as Gorgas and his fair prisoner passed along, 
they were jostled, often rudely, sometimes, by accident, and 
sometimes by design, now into the roadway, and now against 
the engaged columns of the porticos, or the projecting but- 
tresses of massive towers, which flanked the mural defences of 
the city. It was the hour appointed for the meeting of the 
conspirators and those who favoured them. All through the 
previous night, messengers might be met scurrying through the 
deserted streets, soliciting recruits for the new movement, and 
urging their prompt appearance just after the morrow’s sun 
would reach the meridian. That noon had come : the disease 
was spreading. 

When Irene was gone, Matthias donned once more all his 
priestly garments : a blue tunic and seamless wide-sleeved gar- 
ment reaching to his feet, fringed with gold and hung with 
bells ; a girdle made of purple, scarlet and blue threads mixed 
with gold; an ephod or sort of breastplate, also of various 
colours, but richly adorned with gold plates, set with precious 
stones. On two of these stones which were very large sardony- 
xes, set in gold buttons, the names of the twelve tribes of Is- 
rael -were engraved. Besides these, twelve other precious 
stones were set in four rows, three in a row, in the following 
order : a sardis, a topaz and an emerald ; a carbuncle, a jas- 
per and a sapphire ; an agate, an amethyst and a ligure ; an 
onyx, a beryl and a chrysolite. This was, in reality, the dis- 
tinctive ornament of the High Priest. Besides these, hp wore 
a mitre made of fine white linen, adorned with a golden crown, 
and fastened by a blue riband. Thus vested, he set out with 
his attendants for the place of rendezvous, a burned district 
near the tower of Antonia. Five men had been sent on an 
embassy to Titus, to solicit pardon for the citizens, and to lay 
before him the plans of the conspirators : he received them 
favorably, and ofiered a sacrifice to Apollo for the success of 
their undertaking. Several hundred men had already assem- 


THE LAST OF THE HIGH PRIESTS. 


49 


bled to engage in the attempt ; many others to look on, pre- 
pared to profit by its suceess, or avoid the consequences of its 
failure. Knowing ones saw there, too, a nurriber of Simon’s 
sicarii, on the outskirts of the motley group ; but whether to 
help or oppose the movement it was not clear. The High 
Priest mounted the broken base of a pilaster, one of many 
which had graced a magnificent palace, now a heap of burnt 
and battered ruins. He was about to harangue the rescuers, 
his hand raised aloft to command silence, when the shrill blast 
of a trumpet caused every eye to turn and look in the direction 
whence it came — the tower of Phasaelus. There, bare-headed 
upon a balcony, his left hand upon the carved balustrade, his 
right extended and grasping a short rusty sword, stood Simon. 
Matthias turned like the rest, and when he caught a glimpse 
of the tyrant, the memory of his dream flashed before him. He 
knew he was betrayed. His face which was flushed by the 
intoxication of almost tangible success, became ashy pale ; the 
naked sword he carried fell from his nerveless fingers clanging 
from step to step on the shattered portico, and he would have 
fallen backward, perhaps to meet the fate of Eli, if some of 
Simon’s soldiers — ever ready to do duty for their master — had 
not seized him and borne him off to meet a more direful death. 
The conspiracy, like that of Cataline a century before, was stran- 
gled in the dawn of its success, and Macarias, whose living words 
had fanned its infant flame, was the traitor, who that very 
morning had handed over its secrets to the vengeful Simon. 
Not a hand was raised to save the wily priest ; the single blast 
of that fatal trumpet had turned all hearts to stone. The sol- 
diers fell upon those who seemed to favor the plot and chased 
them in every direction, as the wind doth chaff, and the streets 
were suddenly filled with clamour and scenes of blood. 

Gorgas was attacked by several armed men among whom was 
Cyprian, who fought to rescue his sister. Gorgas indeed fell 
once, but others came to his assistance, and the fight lasted 
with varying fortune for nearly half an hour. Men fought 
singly or in pairs, with friends or against them ; as they took 
the humor, without in the least knowing why, or caring what 
would be the result. Citizens and soldiers alike, with few 
exceptions, were anxions for death, and any death would be 
easier than starvation. Irene escaped and was hurrying away 


50 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


under cover of her brother’s sword, when Grogas, who was 
but stunned by his fall, overtook, and with the help of a 
comrade recaptured her, but not until he had broken brave Cy- 
prian’s blade, and felled him heavily to the earth with a cut 
over the temple. Once more a prisoner, she was dragged 
along to the fortress in an unconscious state, and thrown upon 
the floor of an apartment from which a cadaverous stench is- 
sued, when its brazen doors were thrown open. How long 
she remained unconscious she knew not ; but the grating of 
the door on its hinges, brought her once more to her senses. 
When she looked about her, the first object that met her gaze, 
was — 0 horror ! — the unconscious form of Matthias, who, 
with his three sons, were now in the power of the tyrant. She 
strove to get up and go to his assistance ; for it is the first in- 
stinct of woman to relieve the sufferings or supply the wants 
of others, neglectful of her own. But Irene was his neice 
besides, and was but dimly conscious of the wrong he had 
contemplated against her. She was unable, however, to move 
hand or foot ; she was chained there like a wild beast. Her 
wrists were sore, cut deep by the hateful iron links, and every 
movement increased the pain ; but what hurt her most was 
this : that she could not do anything for Matthias. After a 
time, a long time for her, awaking consciousness was manifested 
in the High Priest, by a groan. “ Uncle, 0 uncle, would I 
could help thee,” sobbed the helpless girl, raising her chained 
hands and extending them towards the prostrate and wounded 
priest, whose hair, beard, and soiled and torn garments were 
moist with clotted blood, that dripped sluggishly about him on 
the stone floor, from numerous wounds in his head and face. 
That voice, so sweet, so sad and pleading, that it might have 
soothed the troubled spirit of the fallen man, seemed to startle 
him. He looked about and saw, defiled with dust and blood, 
yet amiable withal, the face which only a few hours since had 
awakened in his soul feelings of pity and bitter remorse. What 
a contrast was there between those two beings — youthful in- 
nocence and aged guilt. He groaned as if a heavy weight 
hitherto suspended above him had just crushed down upon his 
head ; it was the fierce and fleet-footed retribution of his 
treachery. Under its mountain load he uttered a loud cry of 
anguish and relapsed into insensibility. 


THE LAST OF THE HIGH PEIESTS. 


51 


Ah, the instability of earthly honors and pleasures ! Had 
this man never known the comforts purchasable by wealth, his 
present poverty would have for him no sting. Had he spent 
his days on the hillside tending a little flock, and then been sud- 
denly deprived of his liberty, his sufferings through acute, 
would still be tolerable. But Matthias had feasted on the 
best that came from the offerings on the altar, his couch was of 
the finest down, his garments of the richest texture and most 
gorgeos colors. He was accustomed to command, and in 
view of the power the conspiracy would place in his hands, his 
ambitious soul soared aloft and already seated itself in imagi- 
nation on an airy throne, far higher than the one he had occu- 
pied on the temple in his dream. But the coils of the serpent 
of retribution had encircled him ; and as his position was ex- 
alted, so the abyss of misery into which he had been hurled, 
was proportionately deep and degrading. -There, in that damp 
dungeon, held fast by a criminal’s chain, abandoned by all the 
men of his tribe and nation is Matthias, the successor of Aaron, 
the last High Priest who sacrificed on the altar of the Temple 
of Jerusalem ! 

Anna, who knew nothing of the conspiracy, was startled 
from her slumber by the din of arms, and the wailings of women 
and children under her windows. Her head was sore and her 
shoulders bruised, so that it was difficult for her to move about. 
Then a messenger came in hurriedly and informed her of her 
father’s arrest and imprisonment, and she was followed by a 
little girl who related what befel Irene. Anna would not be- 
lieve the news at first ; then she was shocked, and forgetting 
her bodily pains, fell on her knees at her bedside, wept, and 
shrieked, and begged for some consolation. The messengers 
were gone, she was alone. She rushed down stairs and into 
the street with dishevelled hair, half frenzied with grief and 
terror — she was now an orphan — and went aimlessly on. In 
turning down a very narrow lane, she beheld, right in her 
way, what she took to be the dead body of Cyprian. With a 
scream she stooped and raised her cousin’s head ; he groaned 
— thank God ! he is not dead. She called for help and it 
came. Several women recognised the daughter of their Priest, 
and coming to her aid, bore the body to the nearest open door- 
way. His wound was not deep ; but had not the blood been 


52 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


staunched, it might have proved fatal Cyprian soon re- 
gained consciousness, and was able to raise himself up, and his 
first enquiry was for his sister. They told each other all they 
knew about the dreadful events of the past few hours, and then 
the young man noticed, for the first time, the cuts on Anna’s 
head. She was unwilling to tell him how she came by them ; 
but yielded at length to his earnest manner. “ You must not 
go to the prison, Anna/’ said he at last, when he felt that he 
was able to walk, “ return home with me and leave the rest 
to Providence. Henceforth you are my charge.” And they 
went together with tottering steps in the direction of the deso- 
late homestead. 


CHAPTER V. 


A BEREAVED FATHER. 


EEP down in the valley of the Cedroi^ in a gorge where 
the faint pallor of the moon added the dark shadows 
of overhanging rocks to the gloom ; deep down where 
fluttered the foul night bird’s wing, as he fed on the flesh of the 
recent slain, and carried off the tit-bits to his young ; deep 
down where the soil-worm revelled in corrupting flesh, and 
at the disturbing approach of prowling beasts crawled for 
shelter into skulls that once had thought and willed ; deep 
down where fetid airs and mephitic vapors hovered heavily, 
marking the abode of pestilence and putrefaction, and myriad 
millions of winged insects swayed with the currents of the 
atmosphere — with parched throat, and fever stricken brain, 
and pressed by a mass of incumbent corpses in that unclosed 
burying pit of a vast city, lay Irene’s father, Xanthus, whose 
wounds, though severe, were not fatal. He awoke after 
several hours of insensibility to find himself cast away among 
the dead. . The creeping horror inspired by the situation soon 
gave way to the instinct of preservation, and Xanthus, strug- 
gling to his feet, and then stumbling among the dead, 
frightening by his movements the filthy things that fed there, 
groped his way with bated breath, and sickened feelings, to 
where the moon shone full upon the purling waters of the 
brook. With that seemingly unquenchable thirst which re- 
sults from loss of blood, the wounded man plunged into the 
water, and drank to satiety. Thus refreshed, he bathed his 
wounds, ascended the opposite bank, and travelled northward, 
till challenged by one of the Roman sentries. His tale was 
soon told, his accent, the purest dialect of Attica, charmed the 
ears of his hearers, while his manner convinced them of his 


54 


IRENE OF CORINTH, 


entire veracity. He was a Roman citizen — true, that once 
glorious title was falling rapidly in value — and he had been 
abused by a Hebrew, the most contemptible thing, in Roman 
estimation, that existed. Titus swore by the immortal gods 
that the wrong should be avenged, and forthwith ordered a 
number of Jews, who had escaped from the city, to be crucified 
on the following day, in full view of the inhabitants. Small 
comfort this to a bereaved parent, who, at a blow, was robbed 
of all he treasured most in life — his wife, his daughter and his 
son. 

The siege progressed through the wearying hot summer 
months, little varying in character from day to day. Xanthus 
remained wjth or hear the army, wishing, almost hoping to see 
his children once more, alive. How the heart of this parent 
clung to hope, and tried to beguile despair ! How he rushed 
eagerly into every fresh group of deserters from the city, day 
after day, month after month, and carefully, with feverish 
eyes, scanned each face ; then, neither child appearing, turned 
sadly, despondingly away, muttering to himself, “ My God ! 
will I ever see their faces 1” How, too, he often visited the 
spot where the city’s dead were cast, and where himself had 
lain, half buoyant with the thought that perhaps, like himself, 
his children might be alive among the dead ; and again half 
fearing he might find them in want of naught but ^one office, 
and that, decent burial ! How he shrank back at every few 
steps, yet lingered, gazing on the unburied dead, hardly less 
pained by his failure than he would have been by the 
successful issue of his search. At the sight of this father, 
young in years, but bearing the marks that age claims the right 
to set on men, wrestling with a despair that thrived and 
waxed stronger with every new disappointment, the stoutest 
hearts grew feeble, the brightest eyes grew dim. 

The fatal day for the temple was fast approaching. Titus 
had effected an entrance into the northern portion of the 
city — the most modern and unimportant part — and was now 
making preparations to destroy the tower of Antonia, and 
thereby to command the defences of the holy place, which 
he wished to save with as little injury to it as possible. 
The messengers sent out by Mathias to negotiate for a 
surrender, returned to the walls with the favourable answer 


A BEREAVED FATHER. 


55 


of Titus, but coul^ not enter, so close and energetic were 
the watch set by Simon, when he scented the treachery of the 
High Priest. A few persons who escaped from the slaughter 
entered the Roman camp, and told the tale of the failure of 
the conspiracy, and of the fall of Mathias. Titus, who delayed 
a while in anxiety for the success of the plot, thereupon 
hastened to put his plans in execution. Towards evening 
on the day fixed for the attack, everything was put in 
readiness, and just as the sentries were entering on their 
watch, the one near the tower of Hippicus, on the west side, 
and opposite the third wall, noticed a human figure dropping 
from the parapet, and rolling into the deep trench. Was it 
a corpse dropped over the wall by official hands ? Or was it 
an additional refugee coming to court death from the besiegers, 
for almost all such were at once put to the sword, or 
crucified. It is a corpse now, at any rate, thought the sen- 
tinel, as that ravine has a sharp rocky bottom ; and he began 
to hum a rude air, and thought no more of the occurence. 
Here let us return to the city. 

When Simon knew that the high-priest was at last in his 
power, a twitch of malicious joy came over the muscles of his 
savage face. “ Now,” said he, “ to end him." Straightway he 
sent for his chief headsman Ananus, the son of Bamadus, and 
instructed him to make away with Mathias next day. “ Kill 
his sons before his eyes,” he added, “ that he may know what it 
means to resist the arms of Simon.” Next day came with its 
deeds of bravery done by a few rash ones on both sides ; with its 
harrowing death-bed scenes, where the gaunt spectre of hun- 
ger mocked his victims ; with its acts of violence perpetrated 
by the armed upon the unarmed, who suffered with the resig- 
nation begotten of despair, with, in a word, the thousand and 
one incidents, important and unimportant, that go to make up 
the circumscribed life of a beleaguered city. Early in the day 
the prison where Mathias was confined was opened, and he, still 
clad in his priestly robes, and besmeared with dust and clotted 
blood, was removed to a court in front of Simon’s palace. The 
army was drawn about in such a way as to prevent a rescue, 
or suppress a riot. Simon appeared, surrounded by his guards, 
his frowzy hair and disordered tunic betraying the debauch 
of the previous night. A mock trial was allowed the priest, 


56 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


and Macarius repeated his testimony about the origin of the 
conjuration. Mathias was asked if he had any request to make. 
“ Only this,” he said, casting himself on his knees before the 
tyrant, “ that as a return for opening the gates for you, who I 
hoped would be the savior, not the scourge of our people, you 
will put me first to sleep with my fathers, and afterwards my 
sons.” The tyrant laughed. “Know, priest,” retorted he,” “that 
you sought your own advantage in opening the gates for me ; I 
follow your example, and seek mine in opening them to let your 
carcase pass out.” “ My blood be upon you,” said the priest, and 
amid the jeers of Simon’s henchmen, and in full view of the 
Roman legions, whom Simon ironically invited to aid the vic- 
tim, the heads of the priest’s three sons, and then his own rolled 
in the dust, and were kicked about by the soldiers. Macarius, 
who hoped to gain favor by divulging the plot, was now 
brought before the tyrant; who thus addressed him: “Jew, 
with a Greek name, men ever have acted to serve themselves. 
Jacob cheated his brother from this motive, and all sinners 
follow his example. You betrayed your friends, not to be of 
use to me, but to yourself. One who betrays his old friends, 
will betray his new ones, if it will increase his fortune.” The 
unfortunate Macarius fell prostrate with fear, and at a sign from 
Simon the headsman lifted him into a sitting posture — by the 
hair — and with a short sharp sword severed his head from his 
body. While this bloody scene was enacting, under the young 
sunlight, Irene was visited by Joras, the tyrant’s son. He or- 
dered the chains to be removed from the hands and feet of the 
woman he loved, and then repeated the story of his heart, en- 
treating her to have compassion on herself and on him, by con- 
senting at once to become his wife. Irene listened to his 
words, while affecting to be inattentive, and began to calculate 
the chances of escape by playing with his affections. If he re- 
ally loved her, he would set her free, no doubt, upon her af- 
fecting to yield to his wishes. Then she might find means to 
escape from the city. That this plan would be successful was 
at least possible, but it involved so much impropriety that, on 
second thought she rejected it with indignation. Her religion 
taught her to put principles above temporal advantages ; and 
so, although the instinct of self-preservation was as strong in 
her as in others, she scorned to save herself by lying or disimu- 


A BEREAVED FATHER, 


57 


lation. She hesitated long before replying, however ; and 
Joras interpreting her silence favorably, was about to em- 
brace her, when she, perceiving his intention, sprang quickly 
backward, and said firmly, “ Leave me alone, nor come to in- 
sult my misfortune.” 

“ If what you say is true, if you have even respect for a weak 
woman, open these doors and set me free, for how can I be- 
lieve my jailer’s professions 1 ” A t this moment a door opened, 
and a guard entered to summon in haste the young man to his 
father’s council. Glad to escape from the embarrassment of his 
situation, for he really passionately loved Irene, he left the 
room without once looking towards her, lest the fascination of 
her eyes should drive him to some foolish deed. Apart, he 
nursed his chagrin and conceived all manner of plots to engage 
her affections. If she could only see how brave he was, how 
open-hearted, how unlike and superior to other men ! Rush- 
ing along to his father’s residence, time for him flew rapidly, 
crowding into each fugitive moment a world of bliss, aq eter- 
nity of disappointment. In the delirium of his passion, he 
wandered far beyond the tower ; and each well devised artifice 
to win the stubborn maiden — now become a thousand fold 
more desirable because unyielding — looked puerile when her 
stern yet plaintive words “ If you have respect for me, set me 
free,” came ringing in his ears. And he came at last to hate 
her, or to think he did, and forthwith announced the fact to 
himself by a loud imprecation which had the effect of bringing 
his bitter-day dream to an abrupt ending. What a fool I 
was,’* he soliloquized, retracing his steps, “ to let a woman 
engross my thoughts, I’ll think of her no more.” “ Set,” 
he mused, “ if I see her eyes again, I ’am undone, she must 
die to-morrow.” He reached the tower, and entered to meet 
the savage eye of his father, who was anxiously waiting for 
him. Meanwhile Irene, whose subtle Greek mind had now 
recovered its mastery of her weak frame, rapidly developed 
those traits which occasion brings to the surface. She went 
about through several apartments, looking for a place of egress, 
and in one, on the south side, discovered in the wall near the 
ceiling, a small square aperture, through which she knew her 
slight frame would pass, if she could but reach it From 
the opposite side she could see, by standing on tip-toe, that 
D 


58 


lEENE OF CORINTH. 


the window beyond the embrasure had no bars, and that a 
little iron sash with two small panes filled it. The pains of 
Tantalus seized her at the sight ; there was no way of reach- 
ing the window. She rapped on the door and called for help. 
A guard appeared, a malicious-looking little frowzy-haired 
man, with small scrofulous eyes without brows or lashes. In 
an instant Irene saw that he suffered from hunger, and at once 
she concluded that the gratification of his appetite would out- 
weigh his sense of duty ; as her keeper, so she forthwith offered 
him a bribe. She had about her person many valuable jewels, 
and also some silver and gold peices, and from the last she 
chose a daric and held the glittering tempter towards him at 
the same time saying , “ Take it and allow me to depart.” 
Now, if Simon had given strict orders to the guard to observe 
extra caution in the case of frene, the bribe would have been 
no inducement to him to allow her to escape ; but in his haste, 
the tyrant neglected this so important condition of her safe 
keeping, and the guard, not knowing how great a prize was 
in his charge, and pressed by the cravings of his appetite, 
yielded easily to her importunity. Towards sunset he brought 
her a quantity of food and some wine that had been stolen, 
doubtless, from the cellar of the tyrant. She ate sparingly, 
although it was the first time since early morning the day be- 
fore, that she had eaten anything. What slow-paced steeds 
does time employ when he bears us gifts ! The few hours 
Irene spent in that prison seemed ages, and to her latest day she 
shuddered on remembering the pangs she there endured, sur- 
rounded by enemies, and almost despairing of release. When 
evening approached, a door was accidentally left open by the 
guard (so he afterwards explained), and Irene, making good use 
of the opportunity offered, and uttering a prayer for success, 
went out and ran directly towards the western wall. Her 
brother she had seen fall by the sword cut, and his bleeding 
form was the last thing she recollected having seen previous 
to her imprisonment. That she thought him dead was not to 
be wondered at ; and though it seemed there was nothing now 
to live for, to escape the infamy designed for her by Simon, 
was worthy an attempt, even if certain death awaited her at 
the hands of the Eomans. She was but a few hours gone, 
when Joras, who had been all day engaged with his father 


A BEREAVED FATHER. 


59 


planning means of escape from the city, returned to the prison, 
attracted in spite of his chagrin, by a fascination he could not 
rid himself of ; though he repeatedly asserted to himself, and 
confirmed the assertion with oaths, that he no longer loved 
Irene, that, in fact, he loathed her. Still he went on. It is 
needless to say he did not find her, and, also, that the guard’s 
explanation, that he did not know her rank, did not save him 
from death ; for angry men always repair their own oversight 
by punishing others. The elder Simon was furious beyond 
measure,'and paced his room like a caged tiger till the parox- 
ism wore off. 



CHAPTER VI. 

LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT. 


“ I saw two clouds .at morning 
Tinged by the rising sun, 

And in the dawn they floated on, 

And mingled into one.” — Brainaed. 


* N a former chapter we left Anna in the charge of Cyprian. 
When he reached her father’s house, he found it had* been 
already ransacked by ,the soldiers, and everything valuable 
carried off. It was certain that they would trouble it no more ; 
so he entered and led the way to his sister’s room Here they 
sat down, and after drinking some, water, it was the only beve- 
rage to be had in the city, joined in a prayer — short but ear- 
nest, to the Son of God — that he might yet preserve their lives. 
The exhaustion consequent on his almost fatal wounds, now 
took possession of Cyprian ; he sank into a profound stupor, 
watched by her for whom alone he cared to live, and in a few 
hours was in the throes of a delirious fever. But few words 
had passed between them since their misfortunes cast their lot 
together, but their looks were made eloquent by the passion 
that even burning words might chill. This language of love is 
never mistaken by others, though its meaning is often partly, 
often entirely hidden from the lovers themselves. Was it so 
in this instance 1 The fever that seized Cyprian so suddenly 
and so violently, robbed him of the endearments of love, but 
intensified the sentiment. As he lay there upon a few articles 
of clothing, which were spread on the floor for a bed, and tossed 
about his nerveless arms in the heat of the fever that devoured 
his brain, she sat by him, bathing his brow or cleansing the 
wounds in his head and neck, the gathering tears in her lus- 


LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT. 


61 


trous eyes being the silent sacrifice she offered on the altar of 
the idol of her heart. In his ravings her name was often men- 
tioned, but those of his father, his mother, and his sister, oftener. 
Was this a sign that he loved her not as she loved him 1 Eagerly 
she waited for the return of consciousness. Often he would 
turn his dazed look upon her, but the blaze of reason flashed 
not in those gaping eyes ; and when she almost dared to hope 
that he recognized her, he would avert his gaze, muttering un- 
intelligible jargon, thereby re-opening the half-healed wound 
in her soul. A few poor women of the neighborhood, who 
still loved to honor the priest in his unfortunate daughter, 
occasionally nursed the sick man, while Anna snatched a few 
hours of much needed but troubled sleep ; but others whose 
malice grew apace with the sufferings of its object insulted the 
stricken daughter of a once great, but luckless father. After 
three days of racking torture for Cyprian, and hardly less pain 
for her who ministered so tenderly to his wants, the fever left 
him, and although unable to raise his head, or move his limbs, 
he recognized at his side, anxiously awaiting the return of in- 
telligent expression to his countenance, the faithful Anna. He 
breathed her name softly and a feeble smile hovered around 
his pallid lips. That smile repaid her for the long days and 
longer nights of watching and suspense, A few days more and 
he would be able to sit up, and then some means must be de- 
vised to escape from the city. He could only advert to this 
briefly, as his weakness forbade long conversation. What had 
become of Irene was a mystery, impenetrable alike to both ; 
and though a faint rumor went abroad that she had escaped, 
they could not credit it, for, if it were true, they believed she 
would undoubtedly have made her way to their abode. They 
could only leave all to Providence, and so endeavor to prac- 
tice the spirit of resignation to the mysterious workings of the 
Divine will. He strove at intervals to improve her knowledge 
of Christianity, knowing well that it would strengthen her 
to bear up under any possible affliction ; and the words com- 
ing from the lips of the one she loved sank more rapidly 
on that account, into the good soil of her heart, there to 
fructify a hundred-fold, as the sequel will show. A little 
before. the dawn of day, on the morning fixed for the attack on 
the tower of Antonia, a certain centurian, Julius Lepidus by 


62 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


name, was ordered to go along the whole length of the 
western wall, to see that the sentries were at their posts, and 
to note any unusual movements of the besieged. As he 
approached a ravine between the Roman lines and the tower 
called Hippicus, he descried something white apparantly 
moving about stealthily, then suddenly pausing, as his 
footsteps echoed through the trench. He called the attention 
of the guard Servius to it, the same man who earlier in the 
night had seen a white object drop from the wall. After a 
short consultation, the centurian and the guard separated, 
and hurriedly descended into the ditch, intending to cut off on 
every side, the escape of the refugee from the city. As they 
approached from different directions, the female, for such it 
proved to be, uttered a loud, piercing shriek, and sank to the 
ground. Servius reached her first, and rudely taking hold 
of her by the shoulder, raised her into a standing posture, 
and literally shook her back into consciousness. The centurian 
at this moment arrived, and ordered the guard to desist from 
violence, adding that it was unmanly to injure a weak woman. 
The guard, however, claimed her for his own, and a violent 
wordy altercation was going on, when she, regaining courage, 
and seeing the danger of her position, turned a beseeching look 
upon Julius, and exclaimed, in the Greek tongue, “ Good Sir, 
I am in your hands to save or destroy me ; take my life if you 
wish, but as you honor your own dear mother save an orphan 
from dishonor.” As she spoke, the first gleam of dawn broke 
through the sullen darkness, and revealed a face of exquisite 
mould, but bespattered with blood, and wearing an expression 
of intense and unspeakable suffering. Her garments were 
torn, her veil gone, and her hair matted and hanging loosely 
about her, reaching to her waist. Had he looked more closely 
he might have seen, too, that her feet were bare and bloody ; 
but though her general appearance was taken in at a glance, 
it was her eyes that rivited his attention. Deep, dark, and 
entreating, they burned into his very soul, and so completely 
had that one look of hers mastered him, that had she asked 
him to face unarmed, a thousand foes, he would at that moment 
have willingly confronted the danger. “ Beautiful maiden,” 
he replied, also in the Greek language, as he placed his left 
arm about her, and raised aloft his right, which grasped 


LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT 


63 


the sword, “ had I not even understood your words, your 
look would engage me to die for your safety. I know you 
must be noble, and no Hebrew ; by what name shall I address 
you 1 ” “I am called Irene,” she replied, tears of gratitude 
rolling down her flushed cheeks, “ and I have escaped from 
the violence of a tyrant. Last night I leaped from the wall, 
not inviting, but regardless of death, and for a time I lay 
unconscious hereabout. At length my senses came back to 
me, and I was looking for a way to escape to the Roman 
lines, when I perceived you both running towards me. As 
you came near me I feared I had escaped infamy within the 
walls, to meet it without, but God has heard my prayer ; I 
am safe.” On hearing the name Irene, both men started, and 
stared at her, and though Servius had no further desire to 
harm her, who was, he now knew, the daughter of Xanthus, 
yet he gnashed his teeth in a fit of jealous rage, and wished 
Julius at the bottom of the Tiber. “ Come, child,” said the 
latter, turning to ascend the fosse, “ I will lead you to one 

who has long hoped to see you, your father ” “ Father,” 

echoed Irene, starting back, “ my father i's dead, good sir.” 
“I think not,” answered Julius, “for surely you . are the 
daughter of Xanthus.” Overcome with the . sudden emotions 
of joy and fear, of thankfulness, and yet of incredulity, she fell 
upon her knees, and bowed low to the earth. “0 1 merciful 
Father,” she cried, “ if this be true, and Thou hast so favored 
Thy servant, deign to accept my thankful homage ; Thou art 
too kind to me so unworthy.” The heart of Julius was 
moved, and involuntarily tears gushed from the eyes of the 
soldier, whom torrents of martial blood could not move to 
pity. Tenderly he raised her from her prostrate position, 
and helped her with a trembling hand, to push back 
the matted and disordered hair from her face. With the 
toga, or mantle which he wore over his armor, he covered her 
bare head and shoulders, to protect her from the chilly air, and 
leading her quickly to a sort of half covered cavern, or rather 
crevice in the rock, near which trickled a stream of pure water, 
he requested her to await there his return from his rounds, 
when he promised to lead her to her father. “ How can I 
thank you, bravest of Romans,” said Irene, in a voice whose 
silvery intonations were marked with a thrill which betrays 


64 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


a . fast beating heart, “ or how can I repay such kind- 
ness as this, ani from a stranger?" “ Dismiss 0 ! beautiful 
maid,” replied Julius, whose emotion almost choked his 
utterance, “dismiss these thoughts; we shall not always I 
hope, be strangers.” So saying, he seized her hand and pres- 
sing it to his lips, departed. When the sound of his footsteps 
had faded from her ear, she bathed her head and washed the 
blood stains from her face and hands. She strove to quiet her 
feelings, and as a preliminary began to study the causes of her 
extraordinary agitation. Her sudden arrest, the rescue by her 
brother, her recapture and his fall, the sight of her uncle in 
chains, her flight from the prison, her exertion clambering 
over two walls, the shock of her fall into the trench, her cap- 
ture by a rude and profligate soldier, — these were of course 
events of a kind that might excite the nerves of a trained 
athlete to their greatest tension ; but there was something else 
that disturbed her, something that remained, when the feeling 
of present security had quieted her somewhat, by allaying her 
apprehensions of danger. Did it spring from anxiety to see her 
father? Undoubtedly she longed to meet him, to throw her- 
self upon his breast, to hear his voice once more calling her as 
in her childhood, his little lily. With the rapidity of thought, 
her whole life passed before her eyes ; every pleasing and 
and every awful incident distilling its drop of honey or of gall 
in her active memory ; but of all the faces held up by the 
faithful mirror of the past to her view, one only impressed her 
in a peculiar way, and as none other ever had or could. All 
others resolved themselves into this one face, and as it looked 
down upon her a thrill of joy and a throb of pain seemed at 
the same moment to penetrate her soul. This thought annoyed 
her while it pleased and soothed, and after a brief struggle to 
think of other things, the maiden gave herself up to the study of 
this new and fascinating experience. As she wandered in the 
mazes of her thoughts, a souud at a little distance startled her, 
and its repetition caused her serious alarm. She was alone now, 
and who would shield her from this new enemy ? As she shrank 
back further into the recess, an animal, of what kind she could 
not discern, approached, and growled fierecely on observing 
her. As its small fiery eyes fastened upon her she uttered 
a loud scream and was about to fall fainting on the rock, when 


LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT, 


65 


she beheld above her the face that had previously had such a 
singular effect upon her. It was that of Julius Lepidus, and 
she felt that she was safe. The jackal, for such was the beast 
that terrified Irene, bounded away with a piteous wail, terrified 
in its turn by her scream and by the sight of the a.rmed Julius, 
who had sprung lightly upon the roof of the cav'^rn and leap- 
ed into the den that was doubtless its lair. “ Lovely maiden," 
said the soldier in his softest accents, “I am grieved that new ter- 
rors have been added to your situation, by the intrusion of that 
ugly beast, but be tranquil ; while I am with you you are safe. 
The moments seemed hours since I left you, and I feared you 
would imagine I had forgotten you ; I could never forget you," 
he added. “ I know not how to thank you," said Irene, not 
daring to look up, lest she would betray her agitation, “ but 
my father will reward you, if indeed, Xanthus lives," If he 
could have known how his voice set her heart throbbing, and 
and sent the hot blood eddying to her cheeks, he could not 
fail to perceive that he had touched a chord in her breast which 
beat in unison with his own. Would he read in her expres- 
sive look, that his words had breathed softest music into her 
responsive soul 1 Would he discover in the tremor of her 
mellow tones, the voiceless murmur of a sea of feeling, whose 
depths herself might hardly sound? Or would he mistake 
these indications for the expression of gratitude alone 1 He 
loved her with a sudden, but a deep and passionate love, a love 
which is felt by noble souls only, but whether she loved him, 
was a secret he dared not yet attempt to discover. As they 
wended their way over the broken and stony ground towards 
the tent where Xanthus was known to lodge, he plied her with 
many questions concerning her friends, and others in the city, 
while she in turn learned from the happy Julius — happy in her 
company and in the enjoyment of her confidence — many 
things about her father, and the manner of his escape. It was 
now day break, and the whole army was astir for the assault. 
Many an eye turned, some in anger, some in mirth on Julius 
and his charge, as they passed through bevies of soldiers pre- 
paring for the march, but the remarks made by the latter, 
mostly in a provincial Latin, were unintelligible to Irene, and 
elicited no response from Julius. Too soon they reached the 
tent they sought. They entered. Xanthus was asleep at the 


66 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


further end, and near him flickered a lamp whose faint light 
discovered to Irene the well-known features of her father, who 
awoke at the sound of her approach. He started to his feet as 
if he had seen an apparation, when the features of his child 
broke upon his waking vision. Shall we attempt to depict the 
scene that foflowed the mutual recognition of father and child 1 
With an exclamation of mingled gladness and surprise, he 
sprang towards her with open arms, and pressed her to his 
breast. J ulius silently withdrew, lest in any way his presence 
should prove an annoyance, and went immediately to his own ' 
quarters to be in readiness for the assault. Need we say that 
more tears were shed than words spoken, or that the joy of 
the parent consequent on the recovery of his lost child so brim- 
med his soul, that he had no thought for a while, of her lost 
brother. After indulging the first impulse of feeling, Xanthus 
began to see how fearful were the sufferings his child must 
have endured ; but, though he yearned to know all about her 
escape from the city, he resolved not to fatigue her then ; so, 
suppressing his curiosity, he quietly sent for medical aid, and 
provided her in the meantime with the food and rest she stood 
so much in need of. “ My little lily,” said hp, “ you have suf- 
fered much, but you must not speak more now, go to sleep 
child, and at sundown you will be refreshed.” “Oh, dear fa- 
ther,” she replied, obediently disposing herself on a small pal- 
let, “ how good is God to us, I never expected to see you. I 
thought you were long since dead — oh, if my poor mother were 
here now ! ” “ But, father,” she continued, looking up in sur- 

prise at him, “ your hair is gray, oh, how you must have 
suffered.” “ Yes, child,” he said, “ misfortunes have fallen 
heavily upon me, but now I am content, God has restored 
my daughter to me,” and he stooped and pressed her head en- 
dearingly to his bosom, and kissed her innocent brow. “ But 
sleep now, child, take this draught of wine, and you will 
soon be yourself again, there is so much you must tell me.” 
He sat by the pallet on which Irene reposed, and watched her 
with the eager wistful gaze of a parent, till long after she had 
sank into a peaceful slumber. As he looked down upon those 
features now cleansed from the defilement of gore, a re very fell 
upon him. The thoughts of other days came back and loom- 
ing out of the haze of the past, flitted before his eyes. As he 


LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT. 


67 


looked upon the face of the sleeper, twenty years were annhili- 
lated, and it seemed but yesterday when he first beheld the face 
of her mother, on the strand of rocky Cos. The smooth cur- 
rent of his early married life then flowed gleefully past him, 
and in its peaceful waters he saw mirrored the happy events 
of a life that seemed too pleasant to be of earth. Then the 
grim forms of grief, and of death, glowered on him with hid- 
eous looks and the pang he felt, when the young sharer of his 
joys and sorrows fell bleeding at his side, pierced his heart, and 
evoked a cry that disturbed the sleeper in her dreams. She 
turned, though sleeping, and sighed, then smiled a radiant smile 
that once more lifted the load from her father’s heart, as the 
morning sun chases the mists from the winding river. 

Leaving him thus engaged, let us return to Julius. It had 
been the policy of Titus to spare the lives as far as possible of 
his soldiers, and to prevent their engaging in rash acts, which 
might indeed be mistaken for the results of bravery, when in 
reality they were but the product of headless impetuosity. He 
offered great rewards, however, to the first man who, on this 
day, would plant the Eoman eagle on the walls. Everything 
so far had gone prosperously enough, but to scale a guarded 
wall, though necessary, was fraught with extreme peril. Long 
before sunrise the army was in motion, and to the tenth legion, 
the one in which Julius held command was allotted the post of 
honor. Diversions were made in various quarters to distract 
the besieged, and oblige them to divide their forces, but the 
main part of the army advanced towards the wall, near the 
tower of Antonia. The tower itself had been undermined some 
days previously ; but John of Grishala, who ruled in that part of 
the city, had a new wall built within it, thus impeding the Eo- 
man advance. 

Many heroic deeds were done a% the day wore on ; but, 
though some approaches to the temple were burnt partly by 
the Komans, partly by the Jews themselves, no decisive victory 
was obtained. Instances of single combat were frequent, and 
the hand to hand fighting with short swords was terrible. 
Many men perished in the flames, and one Roman, who had 
single-handed driven a body of Jewish soldiers before him, 
slipped on the glassy pavement of the temple, was stunned, 
and in this state ignominiously'put to death, by those who, a 


68 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


moment before, fled before his victorious onset/ Julius had his 
share of hard fighting, but his thoughts oftener reverted to the 
tent of Xanthus, than rested on the task before him. Finally- 
evening came, and the prospect of an immediate capture of the 
city faded, as the welcome darkness put an end to deeds that 
the many call glorious, and the few inhuman. 

Julius then finding himself free, made his way to the spot 
where his heart sought a treasure. When he enterd the tent 
of Xanthus, Irene was seated by the side of her father, neatly 
dressed and greatly improved iu appearance by her recent 
repose. She arose at his approach, saluted him, and introduc- 
ed him as her rescuer, to her father. “ Brave Julius,” said 
Xanthus, “ my daughter has just been recounting the story of 
her trials since we parted, and particularly the danger she es- 
caped in reaching the Roman lines. That she feels grateful to 
you, I need not tell you, and I mean to reward you for restor- 
ing to me a lost jewel.” Julius was disconcerted, and the fact 
that Irene seemed to regard him with admiration, did not act as 
a sedative upon his agitated feelings. But he quickly mastered 
himself, and in a few well chosen words expressed his delight 
to be able to further the happiness of a father, and particularly 
the father of such a daughter as Irene. He looked towards 
her as he spoke, and would have wished to say what he felt, 
but he feared that the shortness of their acquaintance would 
appear to make such a declaration premature ; and besides she 
did not lift her eyes to his in response to the compliment, 
though the delicate blush which suffused her neck and rose 
rapidly to her pale cheek, told him she felt it and was grateful. 
Xanthus was not slow to read the hearts of both, however, 
and fearing the consequence would be disastrous, he sought to 
extinguish the flame he perceived rising, not by directly attack- 
ing it, but indirectly. He thought that seperation would cool 
the ardor of love, and resolved to leave the camp without de- 
lay. For the present he discoursed with his visitor on several 
subjects, chiefly military and political, thereby shutting out his 
daughter from the conversation. Julius was well-informed on 
every subject broached; and as the dialogue proceeded, his 
periods, delivered with a rich and sonorous expression of voice, 
precision and absence of foreign accent delighted his hearers, 
while the depth and variety of his knowledge and the flu- 


LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT. 


•69 


ency with which a Roman spoke their own tongue astonished 
them. An inqiiiry on their part, respecting his birth and par- 
entage, elicited the fact that his mother was a Greek, born in- 
deed in Italy, but of parents who emigrated from Asia Minor — 
hence his perfect mastery of that difficult language. At long 
intervafs I»ene dropped a short comment, or made some remark 
on the subject under consideration, but it was long before she 
had occasion to engross the attention of both father and lover. 

The state of society since the days of Augustus was passed 
in review ; the annihilation of the republic and its absorption 
by the Empire ; the reign of violence inaugurated by the army, 
in chosing the Emperors, the uncertainty of the peace of so- 
ciety, when murder was so lightly thought of, and life so little 
valued, when marriage was almost unk^nown, and dishonesty 
lifted its audacious front in public places. “ How unfortunate 
are the nations,” said Irene thoughtfully, and without lifting 
her eyes from the sward which formed the floor of the tent, 
“ that know not the true God,” she continued after a slight 
pause ; “ they have no peace here and expect none hereafter, or 
rather, know nothing of the mysteries sealed within the fu- 
ture.” Julius looked at her first wonderingly, then with a sort 
of sneer, tempered with admiration. The sentiment was noble, 
but what could it mean for him. Well read in the various philo- 
sophies of Greece, he had become a sceptic, while endeavor- 
ing to reconcile their contradictions. He disbelieved in gods, 
and could not assure himself that there was even one God. 
His doubts often left him in a profound calm, but oftener in a 
state of mind like that of an army preparing for arstruggle, that 
was, it knew not, how near at hand. The words of Irene re- 
newed the combat in him for a moment — a moment only — and 
then succeeded the forced calm, the product of a determination 
never again to bother himself about God or religion. Hence 
the sneer. “Child,” said Xanthus, “our friend is certainly not 
of our belief and he cannot appreciate your remark. We,” 
he continued, addressing Julius, who was about to interrupt 
him, “ are Christians, and have what you would call peculiar 
ideas about this life, and the future.” He was glad, apparently, 
to find a subject on which they could disagree. The rogue. 
“ By the way, have you been much at sea 1 ” Julius thought 
that he saw here an attempt to change the subject, and al- 


70 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


though it for a moment agreed with his own feelings, to do so, 
something prompted him, some vague curiosity which he could 
never explain, to return to the question of God and the future. 
He was wrong. Xanthus wished to continue the subject, and 
his question was’only a feint. He felt sure that J ulius would 
forsake any woman who was a Christian. “ We shslll speak of 
the sea anon,” he replied, “ but meanwhile, I would know 
something of your philosophy." “ Do you not hold much the 
same doctrines as the Jews 1 ” Xanthus was cornered, for be- 
yond the forms he knew little of his religion or of its philo- 
sophy, and turning to Irene he asked her to show his friend 
how far he was right, and where he erred ; “ for” he ex- 
plained, “ she is better instructed than I. My business keeps 
me away from close study.” 

Is it necessary to say that both Irene and Julius were 
pleased that the conversation had taken this direction 1 She 
coloured deeply, but did not hesitate to begin her task. 
Turning her beautiful eyes full upon him, she said, “ 0 
bravest of the Romans to what school of philosophy do you 
belong ? ” “I do not hold to any ; ” he answered, “ I have 
devoured everything the philosophers have written, bdt I 
am seemingly as far as ever from the truth.” “ Then you 
admit that truth exists somewhere,” said Irene, “ that is, abso- 
lute, necessary truth ; therefore a true being, the source in 
some way of all others 1 ” He saw the justness of the conse- 
quence to which she had pushed his remark, but he dared not 
admit it ; so he answered evasively, “ The sceptics will allow 
of no truth ; we are the victims of illusion.” “ Then you lean 
towards their doctrines,” she said falteringly. “ I almost favor 
universal doubt,” he replied. “ How can doubt be a princi- 
ple, though,” asked Irene, “ and above all, how can you ac- 
count for our existence by such a principle ? ” “ The sceptics 

treat existence as an illusion, or vision,” he interjected. “ Then 
they are certain that they thus treat it ; ” she retorted, “ or at 
least they are positive that they make the assertion, and are cer- 
tainly very positive in making it ; therefore they really admit' 
something as certain, namely, the certainty that they treat, or 
say that they treat, existence as a vision or an illusion. They 
also admit the reality of existence while doubting or denying 
jt. Por what is a vision but a representation of a reality 1 ” 


LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT. 


71 


“ But,” said Julius, “ we may have ideas of things, that do not 
exist.” “Yes,” answered Irene, “if we conjure these unreal 
visions from real things, that we know to’fexist. Thus we know 
may that a horse is a real being, and wood is real, and so we 
may fancy a horse with wooden legs. Now such a horse does 
not exist ; but as far as the mind regards it, it is real in its 
parts. Now we cannot discriminate between illusion and re- 
ality, without admitting real existence. And truth is existence 
or that which is. Therefore it is plain that by their own act 
whether in looking for truth, or in doubting or denying it, the 
sceptics themselves affirm truth, that is existence. We have then 
an idea of truth, even of that truth which is absolute, with- 
out limit or subordination to any other thing. As ideas are 
the mental expression of realities, or, if you wish, real things 
affecting our minds, and making them conscious of their pre- 
sence or existence, therefore absolute truth, or truth without 
limit, really exists. We have an idea of it. “Is not this 
clear,” she asked. “ It would be,” he replied. “ If I under- 
stood your assertion, that truth is that which is — existence ; 
but I do not understand it.” “ Pardon me,” said sue, “ but 
from your own expression that you were perhaps far from the 
truth, I concluded, that you, in common with all men, had an 
indistinct idea of real and absolute truth, or, in other words, 
an idea of something absolutely existing.” “ A good re- 
tort,” said Julius. “ Not a mere retort,” said Irene, blushing, 
“ but I merely wish to recall to your memory, the force of 
your own admission.” “ I only meant however,” explained 
Julius, “ that I was as far as possible from truth, if truth ex- 
isted at all. Now I own that I have some sort of an idea of 
truth, but how do I know that it is not as illusory as my idea 
of existence.” “ Well,” answered Irene, “ if it is true that 
we can be sure of the fact that we perform mental functions 
such as affirming or denying — and we are agreed I think, that the 
sceptics themselves can be driven to admit this — what is to 
hinder our being really certain of the truth that the objects 
around us are also existing, are real ? Why we can neither 
affirm nor deny without affirming or denying something : and if 
this be true, the object of our affirmation or denial must be as 
real as the affirmation itself.” “ So far,” said Julius, “ you are 
clear.” “ Then let us go a step farther and affirm that when we 


72 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


form a judgment in our minds, we assert that we exist, for 
if we did not equally exist, we could not think — affirm or deny. 
Now, it is, I think, reAlly clear,” she went on, “ that we are 
ascertain as we exist, that we are distinct from the objects 
around us ; that we are not they, nor they we ; and, therefore 
that we are as certain of the existence of things around us, as 
we are of our own existence. By saying then, that a truth is 
that which is, I mean this : that it is true that some things ex- 
ist ; at least that my intellect, my soul exists. But there was 
a time when my intellect did not exist. Of this truth, I am 
also quite certain, therefore I call myself a dependent being.” 
“Dependent on what, or on whom ? ” queried Julius. “On 
One that is independent, therefore self-existing,” answered 
Irene triumphantly. “ When, therefore, I affirm or deny any 
proposition,” said Julius, “ you mean I affirm that I exist: am 
I right?” “Precisely,” said Irene,” and you further affirm 
that you are a dependent being.” “ I also affirm therefore,” 
continued Julius, “that an absolute indpendent Being exists.” 
“ You affirm,” quoth Irene, “ that such a Being truly lives, or 
which is the same, that His existence is the absolute truth — a 
fact of which, as I asserted before, all men have an idea no mat- 
ter how clouded.” “ I am now convinced,” said Julius, “ that 
truth is that which is, and that absolute truth is the same as abso- 
lute Being. But admitting the existence of such a Being, who im- 
personates all that is true and good, what can we know of Him ? 
He dwells too far away from us to know anything about Him.” 
“ What you say,” replied Irene, “may be taken in many senses, 
but chiefly in two. First, that our reason is, by itself, unable to 
grasp the fact of the existence of absolute truth impersonated, 
or what we call God — or secondly, that we cannot understand 
His nature, or /tow such a being does exist That we do grasp 
the fact of His existence, you have already admitted. It is a 
principle in our nature, without which we could not under- 
stand the fact of our existence. For, ‘from childhood upward, 
we evidently perceive, not alone the fact of our own existence 
but also that we are dependent beings. In other words, we 
felt the necessity of a cause of our being. We comprehended 
that we were creatures ; and this we could not do, if we were 
not, at the same time aware of the existence of our cause or 
Creator. Our reason, then, such as it exists in us, and with- 


LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT. 


73 


out any other help, knows God, or real concrete truth. But 
if you mean that we cannot understand how such a Being 
can exist, I agree with you and so do the Jews. Reason 
alone, without some further light from the Creator Himself, 
cannot fathom the secret of God’s existence. It is a necessity 
of reason that He does exist, hut how He exists is not. We 
Christians, believe that, taking pity on our ignorance, and in- 
ability to know much beyond His existence, and some of His 
more (so to speak) conceivable attributes, God has made a 
revelation to man, and taught him, by the lips of His own 
Son, many mysteries of . His inner life, and also the secret of 
this present life, which is so full of uncertainties and afflict- 
tions.” “ These indeed, are strange things to me,” said 
Julius, “ and so far you have convinced me. But one word 
requires explanation, it is ‘ Creator.’ You call God a Creator 1” 
“ In this,” said Irene, “ we agree with the Jews. God is a 
Creator, or the universe itself must be God. The universe it- 
self cannot be God, for God is unchangeable and spiritual in 
His essence. Neither can the universe be a mere develop- 
ment, or emanation of Divinity, for then it would be still the 
substance of God, immutable or unchangeable. We ourselves 
would be of the substance of God, with our weaknesses, con- 
tradictions and continual changes. In this case we could not 
perceive what we really do, that we are dependent beings in 
need of another to give us existence. So that Pantheism, as 
we call this system, is a contradiction of our very nature. If, 
then, the universe is not God, nor an emanation of the un- 
changeable One, it must be His creation — that is, something 
made from naught, by the free exercise of Almighty or unlim- 
ited power. God is then a creator and a free creator. For if 
God was forced to create then there were a force greater than 
He, viz., necessity ; but as God must be infinite, and the mas- 
ter, not the slave of necessity, or cease to be God, so He was 
free to create or not, as He pleased. But by a person, we un- 
derstand an intelligent substance enjoying free will. God is 
therefore personal.” “ But He had a Son, you said,” broke in 
Julius. “Yes,” said Irene, calmly, “ but that comes under the 
teaching of revelation. It would certainly be unknowable 
without such light. The Jews do not admit this fact, in our 
sense ; and in this the Christian religion chiefly differs from 
E 


I 


74 IRENE OF CORINTH. 

the Jewish.” “ Your reasoning is unanswerable,” said Julius. 

“ Now, what does your religion say about the problem of life ? 
Man is born naked, lives a life of greater or less suffering, and 
dies. During life he aspires high, he dreams of a future, and 
longs for happiness. Every whim is disappointed, and the tomb 
seems to end his aspirations. Whence this innocent suffering ? 
I must say 1 have always resented it, and I love to hope with 
Plato, that our soul is immortal, and destined to be happy, in 
proportion as it has avoided injustice, in this mortal life.” 
“ You follow,” said Irene, who was delighted with the noble 
professions of her questioner, “ the promptings of true reason, 
and the doctrines of the Son. of God are eminently reasonable. 
Our religion teaches us, that man was created perfect in soul 
and body, and then left free to do well or ill, and take the con- 
sequences for himself, i,and his offspring. He was promised 
immortality besides temporal happiness if he would do well ; if 
ill, he and his posterity were to be shut out from the unending 
bliss, for which they were destined, and were also to be con- 
demned to suffer in this -life temporal ills and death. The first 
man chose the worse part, and we, his descendants, suffer the 
consequences pi his fault, just as we may be disposed to suffer 
from the diseases acquired by our own parents. We are also 
shut out from the immortality and extraordinary happiness 
promised our first parents as a reward of their faithfulness. It 
is thus we explain the origin of evil Though not bound to 
do anything to rescue us from this predicament, God, we be- 
lieve, through pure compassion sent His own Son into the 
world, in human shape, to suffer, and by his sufferings, to atone 
for the folly of Our ancestors. When once we believe in Him, 
and try to follow His commands, though we may not suffer 
less in this life, we are assured that the immortality promised 
to us in our first parents, but lost by them, will be restored to 
us as a right. We further believe that a day of general judg- 
ment will come, when every injustice will be punished. Then 
those who, though innocent, shall have suffered wrong in this 
will life see their enemies humbled ; and those who rejoice in 
others’ sufferings here, will mourn and wish they had been 
more wise. Thus every thing shall be set to rights, and the 
wise government of the Creator vindicated.” 


LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT. 


75 


“ This,” saidJulius, “ is eminently a rational teaching, and 
one which, as a philosopher, I would not be ashamed to profess.” 
It was now so late that the need for repose forced itself on the 
attention of all three ; so, with* a hearty good night, Julius 
withdrew from the tent,, leaving the happy Irene to enjoy her 
father’s admiration. 

Now, some may remark that such a display of philosophic 
knowledge would be impossible for one so young. But if we 
reflect that the language Irene and Julius spoke was Greek ; 
that the philosophic systems which so sorely puzzle the modern 
student— even to translate — were the daily reading of children 
in the schools of Greece. The apparent impossibility will be- 
come a truth. Educated Greeks amused themselves with phil- 
osophy as modern scholars often do with the mysteries of the 
Calculus. . ' • 



CHAPTER* VII. 


THE FALL OF THE TEMPLE. 


From the last hill that looks on thy once holy dome 
I beheld thee, O Sion ! when rendered to Home : 

’Twas thy last sun went down, and the flames of thy fall 
Flashed back on the last glance I gave to thy wall.” 

— Byron. 


A*T4THEN the elder Simon found that his prey had escaped, 
he raved furiously, and seemed to feel the loss, even 
more than his son. In vain he sent his sicarii abroad 
to bring her to him alive or dead. He sent for Gorgas, who 
was brought into his presence on a litter, covered with w.ounds 
received in his defence against the, would-be rescuers of Irene. 
Simon demanded from the soldier, proof that he had delivered 
her over securely to the jailor. The unfortunate man had no 
proof to offer, ‘ as all his companions in the fray had fallen. 
Nor were his wounds sufficient testimony in the eyes of the 
monster Simon who well knew that Irene was at one time secure 
in prison. His son had seen her there ; but he loved to shed 
blood, and he at once ordered Gorgas to be taken away and 
beaten to death with rods. It was now midnight, and sending 
for his son and a few other companions, he left the populous 
part of the city and started off rapidly in the direction of the 
caves, or sepulchres of the Kings. He undoubtedly foresaw 
the speedy termination of the siege ; and he knew, in fact, that a 
great movement of the Romans was imminent ; consequently he 
was pushing forward with all speed the preparation of these 
places of refuge for himself, and those whom he wished to save. 
The caves were some of the vast subterranean passages which 
ramified everywhere underneath the city. They may be com- 
pared to the sewers of Paris, in respect of size and extent ; but 
what their purpose was is not known with certainty. Besides a 



THE FALL OF THE TEMPLE. 


77 


store of food whicli was furtively conveyed thither, Simon had 
tools for excavating brought down a long time before he stood 
in need of them, so that he would be able, if necessary, to dig his 
way out to a place beyond the reach of capture. But, as the 
sequel will show, he blundered ; for either he was in hopes 
that the Romans would soon leave the city, after sacking it, and 
therefore did not accumulate a sufficient quantity of provisions, 
or the number of his retinue exceeded his first calculations ; 
and he was at length driven from his lurking place through 
want. 

After exploring thoroughly every means of ingress and 
egress, and studying all their secret passages, the tyrant and 
his companions returned to the tower, to snatch a few hours’ 
rest before sunrise. It was but a few hours indeed ; for the 
attack on the tower which we have already recorded, began at 
daybreak. It did not succeed so well as Titus had expected, and 
was not repeated for several days. Simon kept up his plan of 
making nightly sorties on tKe enemy and he accordingly organ- 
ized one for that very night. At a given signal the gates 
were thrown open and a body of armed men rushed violently 
into the midst of the Roman works, fought with all whom they 
met — often with their own friends — threw burning brands 
against the balistoe and other engines of the besiegers, and 
then ran madly back to their shelter. This is the history of 
every one of those mad spasms of the dying city to prolong 
its life tenure. They were all alike ; without order, *hope, or 
profit. 

While Simon was dividing his time between carrying 
out those petty raids, and providing for his own safety in the 
caves, Anna was looking after the wants of the convalescent 
Cyprian, and Irene was nightly brushing away many of the 
webs of Pagan sophism and, ignorance from the intellect of 
Julius. Every moment at his disposal was spent in her com- 
pany, sometimes in the presence of her father, and oftener in 
his absence. Xanthus had changed his manner towards his 
daughter’s suitor since the failure of his itise to repel him, and 
therefore delayed his departure from the camp. He felt that 
to interfere with the legitimate affection* of the young people 
would be imprudent as well as cruel. On one of those even- 
ings when Irene and Julius strolled along beneath the filmy 


78 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


shadows of the fleecy clouds which now and then chased each 
other athwart the surface of the moon, he stopped abruptly and 
begged her to favor him with her attention. “ I have,’' he 
began, “ something very serious to say, something that has 
tortured me from the moment we first met. I have longed 
for this occasion, yet even now I hesitate to make use of it. 
But I must say it ; ” and raising his right hand toward hea- 
ven, like one who would take an oath, he said, in accents 
which caused her very heart-strings to vibrate, “ Irene, I 
love you. I would make you my wife. Fair one, answer me, 
can you accept and return my love i ” For a brief minute there 
was silence ; it seemed to him of years ; and then Irene replied, 

“ Julius, you have many claims on my affection ; it would be 
useless to dissemble my love for you ; but there is an obstacle 
to our union.” He would have seized her in his arms, so full of 
joy was he at her answer — he knew of no obstacle — but she 
raised her right hand, and placing it against him, gently re- 
pulsed his amorous caress. He appreciated her sense of deli- 
cacy and checked himself. “ At least this is allowed me,'’ said 
he ; then quickly taking her hand, and pressing it to his lips, 
while a feeling of admiration for her modesty filled his noble 
soul, “ I will hear of no obstacles,” he said ; “ we love each 
other ; why may we not be united 1 ” “ On your promise,” 

she replied, “ that you will never interfere with the practice of 
my religion, I may become your wife.”' Again he raised his 
hand and protested on the honor of a man and a Roman citi- 
zen — the highest title he could boast of — that he could not • 
consistently think of hindering any one, much less his wife, 
from the freest exercise of her creed. She gave him her hand, 
which he kissed once more. Happy beyond measure, arm in 
arm, they returned to the tent occupied by Xanthus. Here 
Julius bade her an affectionate good-night and hurried off to 
his own quarters. 

When she entered, Xanthus was reading a well-worn copy 
of St. Paul’s first epistle to the Corinthians. It was a dingy 
looking bit of parchment which bore marks of frequent perusal. 
For, as such copies were few, comparatively, those who owned 
them were frequently*asked to lend them to friends, who would 
read and perhaps make a copy of them. In this way the ori- 
ginal was copied, and copies were multiplied and distributed 


THE FALL OF THE TEMPLE. 


79 


among the new converts to the faith. “ My child,” said Xan- 
thus, raising his, eyes from the manuscript, “I was just reading 
the exhortation of our apostle regarding the Lord’s Supper. It 
is a long time since we received the precious food of Christ’s 
body.” “Yes,” replied Irene, sitting down beside him. “ When 
at home, we received Our Lord almost daily, but our travels 
have separated us from Him. I so long to enjoy the happiness 
of His Presence ! ” “I do not like to return to Corinth,” said 
Xanthus, “ where my prg>perty has been confiscated, but I have 
a relative in Sicily, ‘a cousin, engaged in wine-making, and 
though we have not met since we were children, he would be 
glad to see me. As soon as this siege is past, and I shall have 
visited the grave of your dear mother and brother, we shall set 
out for Syracuse. There is a bishop there and we shall once 
more receive the consolations of our religion.” Was he forget- 
ting that his daughter might go elsewhere with J uHus 1 Irene 
was startled by the announcement, and hastened to inform her 
father of her engagement. “ Father,” said she, “ I must 
tell you what has just passed ; it is my duty to inform you 
that I have this night promised to become the wife of J ulius. ” 
“ What ! so soon ! ” said Xanthus, with some surprise. “ This 
is a serious matter, in these days of warfare and of persecution. 
Have you thought of this, child ? ” “ Yes, father,” said Irene, 

putting her arm around his neck, “ I have thought of it, but he 
saved my life, and wheii he told me that he loved me, I be- 
lieved him ; and when he asked me if I could return his love, I 
had to tell him the truth ; I loved him.” “A woman’s logic 
always,” said Xanthus, good-naturedly. “ But,” continued 
Irene, “ we have made' no arrangements about the marriage ; 
that I leave altogether in your hands,” and drawing down his- 
head, she kissed him. “ Qdite cdrrect, my child,” replied her 
‘ father, returning her caress. “ J will arrange all as soon as pos- 
sible, though I fear it must be a long time before you are 
united. Has he promised . . . ? But I need not ask such a 
question. He is too thoroughly a man to interfere with your 
religion.” “ The only condition I interposed,” said Irene, 
“ was that I should bn free, and in his own way, he swore, as 
he loved me, to leave my conscience free. But I have no doubt 
that one day our good Lord will give him the grace of con- 
version ; he is so noble, so good ! ” “Yes, he is noble,” said 


/ 


/ 


80 IRENE OF CORINTH. 

Xanthus, “ and when man has a good will, God will surely 
help him to the true path.” 

When Julius parted from his betrothed, his head was filled 
with blissful visions of a'happy future in her^society, and when he 
threw himself on the floor of his own tent, he at once sank into 
a peaceful slumber and dreamed of promenades through the 
sunny meadows of Campania with Irene by his side ; of a villa 
by the yellow Tiber’; of boats floating over the glassy surface of 
the shallow lakes, where the odor of the magnolia and the red 
lotus entranced the senses, and gold fishes splashed upward and 
flitted hither and thither clad in robes of liquid sunshine. If 
he could thus dream on for ever ! But a light tap on the 
shoulder and a whispered password puts a sudden term to his 
sleep, and brings him quickly to the consciousness of hard work 
ahead. Yes, the final attack is to be made on the city. 

A few days after the unsuccessful attack on the tower of 
Antonia, twelve Roman soldiers discovered that the Jewish 
guards in charge of it were asleep — the result of overwork — 
and hastily sending one of their number for assistance, killed 
the sleepers, and held their ground against the aroused garri- 
son, until reinforced. With little difficulty the tower was 
taken ; and Titus set his men to raze it to its foundations. 
Then, utilizing the materials, he filled up the trench which 
protected the temple, and thus constructed a nearly level road- 
way from the wall which he had himself erected, to the plane 
called the outer court, or “ Court of the Gentiles.” It was by 
this roadway that the Roman general meant to push his legions 
into the heart of the city ; and the Jews, who hourly expected 
the first attack, amassed there also evefy available man under 
arms to oppose him. 

It was to take part in this movement that Julius was aroused 
from his pleasant slumbers. There is no time to be lost ; the 
legions are already drawn up in columns eight men deep, with 
three feet between the ranks as well as the files, and await the 
whispered word of command to advance stealthily to death or 
victory. Scaling ladders and rams were all in readiness, and 
before the dawn had drawn back the sable curtains of night, 
the assault on the defences began. Thoughts of wives, child- 
ren, lovers were here out of place, and every man faced his 
stern duty. The Romans were met before they had advanced 


THE FALL OF THE TEMPLE. 


81 


half way to the court, and great was the slaughter on both 
sides when the fighting commenced. Hand to hand conflict 
with swords, left open no avenue for the display of cowardice. 
All that day till dusk, and for two days more, the battle con- 
tinued, until at last on the tenth day of the month Lous, or 
Ab, the anniversary of the very day on which the temple was 
burned by the Babylonians, one of the Romans, who was lifted 
upon the shoulders of another, set fire to one of the windows 
on the north side. Fanned by the wind the flames rolled 
through the vast rooms, and in spite of the efforts made by 
Titus to extinguish them, the magnificent structure out of 
which our Lord had driven the money-changers, was wholly 
consumed A few days before this, as Josephus points out, 
the daily sacrifice failed, there being no priest to offer it since 
the death of Matthias This fact had been foretold by Daniel 
the prophet centuries before. The Jews, so stubborn hitherto, 
now lost all courage, the last prop of their faith having failed. 
Many threw themselves into the flames to perish with their 
temple, and others fell bleeding on the altars, and all about 
the inmost sanctuary. When our Lord preached to the Jews, 
they were in fancied security, they despised Him and put 
Him to death as a false prophet ; but now, in their straits, they 
were ready to listen to every false prophet who chose to mis- 
lead them. One such told them, that if they would ascend 
upon the temple, God would show them signs of deliverance.. 
Several thousands obeyed, or endeavoured to obey, this impos- 
ter and were destroyed in various ways, in, on, or about the 
temple. 

The highest part of the city still remained to be taken ; and 
Titus at once set about the task. He was obliged to raise 
three mounds against the inner wall, ‘ a work which occupied 
nearly Three weeks to accomplish. With little trouble com- 
paratively, he carried the wall by storm, and proceeded to 
burn everything of value that he could not carry away. As 
the Roman soldiers rushed about, maddened by resistance, 
they poured into houses and cellars in search of victims for 
their rage. A few from the tenth legion with Julius at their 
head, were about to enter the porch of a marble mansion, when 
the foremost of them was struck down by some one within. 
The others hesitated to enter, but when they saw only one man 


82 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


there and one woman, whom he seemed ready to defend against 
all intruders, their anger increased to fury. On they rushed, 
four against one, and straightway two of their number lay 
prostrate, one of the others was wounded, and J ulius alone 
remained to engage the fierce protector of the hapless female. 
A severe struggle ensued ; and the young hero fell beneath a 
heavy but slanting blow, which opened a gaping wound on the 
right side of his uncovered head. He fell across the prostrate 
form of her whom he had shed his blood to save, and as he 
did, a medallion became detached from a chain which was sus- 
pended about his neck, and rolled along the marble pavement. 
Julius put up his sword and looked down upon the two forms ; 
and his soul was stirred with compassion. “ They were surely 
lovers,” he mused ; and then his thoughts wandered back to 
Irene, whom he had not seen since the siege of the upper city 
began. The girl seemed to be dead, though she had only 
fainted, and the youth through wiry, was pale and haggard ; 
like one on whom some recent sickness had wrought without 
mercy. He groaned and clutched his sword ; he was not dead. 
Julius saw the medallion on the floor and picked it up. “ Per- 
haps,” said he, aloud, “ it is some love token,” and opening it, 
he saw within engraved in the gold, the names Xanthus, Re- 
becca, Cyprian, Irene. Then that strong man’s arm re- 
laxed, the locket fell again to the floor ; his form swayed, and 
he leaned against the wall unnerved. The sickening thought 
coursed through his brain, “ you have killed the b^rother of 
your beloved.” It was indeed Cyprian whom he had struck 
down, and the maiden was Irene’s cousin. Just then, Anna 
recovered, and without delay, she and Julius carried Cypri&n 
to an inner apartment. A few questions put to Anna con- 
firmed the suspicion of J ulius, as to the identity of the wounded 
man, and a close inspection of the wound showed that the 
skull was not injured and that Cyprian had fallen more from 
antecedent weakness, than from the violence of the sword-cut. 
Anna explained how Cyprian had been wounded and left for 
dead on the street, while endeavouring to secure his sister ; how 
she had found him and nursed him till he recovered ; and 
finally, that it was only a week since he had risen from his 
bed. Julius was both pleased and pained by the recital j 
pleased by the bravery and chivalry of the brother of the 


THE FALL OF THE TEMPLE. 


83 


woman he loved ; pained that he should have fallen out so 
lucklessly, aud that he himself should have been the cause of 
his present suffering. Cyprian, however, soon rallied, and was 
surprised to see his enemy standing beside Anna, bending over 
him with a look of deep compassion. “ How is this 1 ” were 
his first words, “was it not you that wounded me? or am I 
still dreaming ? ” Anna, for the first time, as it appeared by 
her amazed look, perceived that her fellow-nurse was a Roman 
soldier. “ I knew not, my Cyprian, that he was your enemy,” 
cried she, drawing back, “ but he has acted like a friend since 
I recovered from my faintness.” “ Who are you, sir ? ” said 
both she and Cyprian in chorus, as the situation became every 
instant more embarrassing. Julius smiled, first on Anna, and 
then on Cyprian, and said with a voice full of that emotion 
which characterizes earnestness, “ I am Julius, a centurion of 
the Roman army and have the honor to know your sister 
Irene.” “ Irene,” exclaimed Anna, starting forward a pace and 
throwing up her hands, while her eyes seemed' to re echo her 
words. “Irene,” said her brother in a choked and muffled 
tone, as he sprang up and rested on his left arm, and then fell 
back, too weak to maintain that position. “ Do not stir again,” 
said J ulius, “ I see you are very weak, and I know the cause. 
Y'our sister is indeed alive, and also your father Xanthus.” “ 0 
blessed be Heaven.” cried Cyprian, weeping aloud, “ blessed 
be Heaven ! But how is this possible ? Was he not killed in 
this very street and thrown into the valley of Cedron ?” Anna 
was by this time bathed in tears, crystal tokens of the joy 
which the unexpected news produced in her affectionate soul. 

Meanwhile the scenes of blood continued without, and it be- 
came necessary for Julius to rejoin his troops. Before doing 
so, however, he caused his new friends to remove as far as pos- 
sible from the chances of discovery, for this meant death, 
and then went in search of Titus, in order to interest him in 
their behalf. This was no easy matter, for so great was the 
din, so thickly strewn the roads and doorways with dead and 
dying, so great the number of persons running hither and 
thither, and so vast the preoccupation of the commander-in- 
chief, that the prospect of reaching him, and then of impres- 
sing him favorably, was gloomy enough. But the manly 
Julius saw no difficulty in the attempt. He looked straight 


84 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


ahead at his purpose, and waded through every obstacle. He 
found the prince, who was willing, anxious even, to be merci- 
ful to all save the leaders. This gave a new direction to the 
thoughts of the centurion. Simon had insulted Irene ; he 
would seek him out for special vengeance. As soon as he could 
he returned to the holise of Matthias only to find it in flames. 
He rushed through the smoke to the apartment which Anna had 
chosen for their hiding place, and found only Cyprian. Anna 
was no where to be found. There was no time to lose, however, 
and the powerful Julius, seizing his wounded friend in his 
arms, rushed out with him into the street, just as a portion 
of the roof fell in, sending heavenward a shower of sparks, and 
volumes of dense black smoke. Once on the street the 
wounded man, leaning on the arm of Julius faltered along to- 
wards what was once the gate of the Essenes, and was thence 
conveyed back to the rear of the Koman camp, which was 
now mostly within the lower city, to the North and West. 
Julius having thus provided for his safety, returned to the scene 
of action, to join in the pursuit of the tyrant Simon, and, if 
possible to discover Anna, whose loss Cyprian bitterly bewailed. 
Towards Siloam severe fighting awaited the pursuers, but all 
resistance was now useless. Simon knew this, and had already 
taken refuge in the caves. 

As J ulius and his men came near to the old royal sepulchres, 
they heard an angry interchange of words, in a language they 
did not understand, and immediately afterwards, the clash of 
swords. A wall about thirty feet long, and eight or ten feet 
high stood here, built of greyish granite. • Another like it, 
though somewhat higher, extended at right-angles with the 
street on which they were. Three round porphyry columns, 
surmounted by Corinthian caps, also* stood near by, ready to 
fall from their shattered bases and add to the general ruin. 
This was all that now stood of the once palatial residence of 
Macarias, whose wretched fate occupied our attention in a for- 
mer chapter. Within this ruin a quarrel was proceeding. A 
large but clumsily-built man, and a small, agile man were en- 
gaged in mortal conflict The small man struck his adversary 
more frequently, his suppleness giving him an advantage over 
the giant, who was slow in all his movements. At length the 
giant made a terrible sweep with his long sword at the other, 


THE FALL OF THE TEMPLE, 


85 


whose arm only and not his head it reached. As he struck, 
however, he tripped against a sharp stone and fell forward 
heavily to the ground. Julius now interfered, and asked the 
cause of the quarrel. The little fellow threw himself at the 
feet of the Eoman, and in very awkward and^broken Greek, 
begged for his life. Then he explained that his name was Ben ; 
that he had made a bet with the giant, whom our readers will 
recognize as Gad, and the latter wished to exact payment from 
a penniless wretch. Gad explained that he had laid a wager 
with that little rook two months previously, ' that before the 
end of the month Eluel Simon would be hid in the caves. 
“ Simon,” interjected Julius, his eyes flashing, ‘‘ Where is he 1 
where is Simon 1 ” “I don’t know,” said Gad, grinning, 
“ but if he is not dead, or has not escaped, he is in some of the 
caves underground.” “Lay down your arms,” said Julius dis- 
appointed, and forthwith both were manacled. “ You shall 
soon have a chance to settle your little bet in the Roman cir- 
cus,” he continued, “You both know how to handle your 
weapons very well.” 

They then proceeded with their search till night came down 
upon the ruined city, and veiled its hideous sights from the gaze 
of man. Then indeed might the few of its inhabitants who 
still lived remember the awful prophecy of our Divine Lord, 
that not a stone shonld be lef^ upon a stone of the once beauti- 
ful Jerusalem ! The sun which that day went down over the 
city threw the long shadows of the hills upon smoking ruins and 
mangled corpses, where once had stood the throne of Solomon. 
And the fumes of the warm blood of myriads of victims, and 
the smoke from that vast altar ascended before the Most High 
a sacrifice of retribution for the crimes of Sion’s inliabitants ; 
crimes the blackest and most inexcusable, perpetrated by the 
sons of a race on which the choicest dews of Heavenly grace 
had fallen in vain for centuries. 



/ 


CHAPTER VIIL 

• THE KIVAL’S stratagem. 

» FTER the conversation between Irene and her father, 
about the marriage, they retired to rest, and did . not 
awake till late next morning. Like those of J ulius, 
the dreams of Irene were full of fanciful joy; but in each cup 
of bliss lurked a sediment of pain, which she was invariably 
forced to drink. Each particular phase of her dream led to 
union with her lover ; but an obstacle as surely blocked her 
path. As a consequence, her sleep was not refreshing ; and in 
spite of her efforts to banish the dreams from her memory, 
next morning, they clung to her with a pertinacity that would 
seem incredible. Still, she fought them religiously, and would 
not seek to draw from them conclusions unfavorable or other- 
wise, to her prospects. 

Round about the tent which she occupied, only three decur- 
ions with their command were in view. The main body of the 
army had, as we have seen, approached the city during the 
night; leaving these few in charge of the sick and wounded. 
During the long sultry day she and her father sat and looked 
on from afar at the battle raging in the city ; watched the 
curling smoke as the various buildings caught up the flames, 
and seemed to toss them from one roof to another with almost 
the rapidity of lightning ; and heard the confused roar — like 
the sound of the distant sea — caused by the battle cries of the 
soldiers, the shrieks of frightened children the wailings of de- 
spairing women, the moans of dying and the yells of frenzied 
men, the bellowing and howling of all kinds of maddened beasts, 
the swish and whirl of crackling flames, the crash and thud of 
crumbling walls and falling timbers. And they sat, and sat, 
and looked, and listened, and seemed like statues without life 


THE rival’s stratagem. 


87 


or feeling ; for the awful grandeur of. the spectacle had so 
wrapped them up and so absorbed their attention, that had the 
earth quaked beneath them, it could hardly have caused them 
a momentary distraction. 

It was not the mere work of destruction going on before 
them, that inspired them with awe; it was the'^belief that they 
were witnesses of the fall of the Jewish religion — of the passing 
away of what was once the chosen worship of the Most High° 
They knew, as every follower ,of Christ knew, . the' prophecy 
concerning the fall of the city and the temple ; and here was 
its fulfilment in visible operation before their very eyes ! Day 
after day they sat there and watched the progress' of the ruin ; 
and though their thoughts were many, the words they inter- 
changed were few. Irene often knelt and prayed for her 
lover’s safety, and longed for his return from the bleeding city. 
Had she any misgivings for his safety ? At times she 
feared, and a feeling very like despair wrung her soul and 
forced a shudder from her frame. A week of anxious waiting 
had passed by, and just as Xanthus an,d his daughter were 
kneeling for their evening devotions, a soldier entered rudely 
and threw down a piece of parchment before Irene. “ That,” 
said he, “is all he had time to write before he died !” He 
begged me to bring it to yoh, and to tell you he died still 
loving you.” Mechanically she opened the scroll, and the mo- 
ment her eyes rested on the writing she screamed and sank to 
the earth. The soldier disappeared ; and Xanthus raised his 
daughter and endeavoured to revive her. When he had suc- 
ceeded partially, he took the scrap and saw on it these words : 
“ Irene, beloved — I am dying, farewell. Julius.” “No won- 
der she was stunned,” said Xanthus, as his eyes moistened, and 
his heart seemed pinched within him. I must leave this place 
so full of grief for me and mine. “ Irene, my lily, we must 
leave here,” he continued, addressing his now waking daugh- 
ter. “ To-morrow shall end our abode in this cursed country.” 
“Julius, Julius, [my love, my own ! ” cried Irene, whose wild 
grief now found vent in bitter tears. “ You are gone from me 
for ever, and our love so young ! Oh, why am I thus robbed 
of you, widowed before our marriage 1 Why are we thus separ- 
ated, torn apart so soon ! Oh, woe is me. Why is Heaven 
so cruel to me 1 ” Thus she continued for many hours to mourn 


88 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


for her lost one, though her father did all in his power to as- 
suage her grief. Wearied at length by excessive weeping, 
Irene closed her eyes, and slept a Iretful marrowless sleep, full 
of horrid phantoms and dreams laden with calamity. Morn- 
ing came ; and in silence she helped her father prepare for 
their departure — whither she knew nor cared not ; for what 
was there left on earth for her now to love, or live for ! 

Why did the soldier who had borne this heart-breaking mes- 
sage, depart so quickly ? How was it that neither Irene nor 
her father had seen his face I Had she seen that savage face, 
she might have doubted the report. It was that of Servius the 
guard, who, on the night of her escape from the city had seized 
her, and was prevented by Julius from harming her. Since 
that night, when his design was frustrated by the centurion, 
Servius had sighed for revenge. He watched askance the 
progress of the courtship ; and when J ulius, unaware of mortal 
presence, save hers, whom he loved, pledged his fidelity to Irene, 
and received in return the declaration of her love, Servius was 
hidden in the undergrowth hard by ; and he swore that their 
union should never come to pass. 

The reader is aware that the villain’s report was false. The 
parchment which Servius had so hurriedly left in the tent, and 
that Irene mistook for a proof of the death of her lover, was a 
forgery, written by the hand of that base man, and dipped in 
the blood of some dying wretch within the city’s walls. His^ 
revenge was complete. Will vice ever triumph thus ? 

Xanthus hired a few pack horses early in the morning, and 
placing his baggage on them, set out with his daughter for 
Joppa, which they reached in safety, and embarked for Syra- 
cuse in Sicily. In the meantime, Servius, who was delighted 
at the success of his villainy, bribed those who had assisted 
Xanthus to reach the sea-port, to deny any knowledge of his 
destination, if Julius should inquire for Irene on his return 
from the sack. Now' Julius, though extremely anxious about 
his bride, was too prudent to trust with any messenger 
a letter or verbal message to his betrothed ; so he kept his 
own counsel, never once dreaming of the black plots which 
were ripening in his absence. In a few weeks at most, he 
reasoned, he would see her ; and she knew tvhere he was in 
any event. He was, nevertheless, often tempted at nightfall to 


THE rival’s stratagem. 


89 


leave his post and pay her a visit ; but he shrank from too 
great publicity and suppressed the yearning of his soul. But 
his strange discovery of Cyprian hastened his return by some 
days. Several hours elapsed since he had parted from his 
wounded friend; and as the pursuit of Simon was for the time 
being given up, he returned as quickly as possible to conduct 
him back to the old camp where he had last seen Xanthus and 
Irene. He was glad to find Cyprian greatly recovered and 
able to take a hearty draught of rich wine, the first he had 
drunk in several months. Next day — at last — they set out, 
the hearts of both equally bounding with joy at the prospect of 
meeting, the one a bride the other a sister. As they passed 
along, they came here and there, upon large knots of men, 
women, and children, all bound in two’s by cords, and under 
the eyes of guards. These were the captives, who were to 
be sold, and dispersed into every region of the known world. 
In one place was a body of young men, tall, symmetrical and 
handsome, despite their hunger-pinched features. They were 
chosen from among the followers of Simon to grace the triumph 
that Titus was destined to celebrate in Rome. Their less for- 
tunate companions were either butchered, after the selection 
was made, or reserved to engage in gladiatorial contests in 
the arena, and thus to make away with each other, while fur- 
nishing sport for the savage spectators. Pagans in those days 
could find no greater sport than to witness the spectacle of two 
men carving each other to death ; and so warped and ferocious 
had their nature become, that the more cruel and sanguinary 
the death of the luckless victim, the greater the shout of exul- 
tation that swelled to greet the success of the victor. 

This was part of the civilization of that age. It was an integral 
part of the grand old Roman civilization, a civilization that sanc- 
tioned murder, suicide and debauchery. There are now living, 
persons, who mourn over the ruins of the Roman fabric — of its 
temples, its theaters, its sculptures, its arenas. But these ruins 
have their lesson. Those of the grand and stately Coliseum drew 
from Byron only an expression of worship for the great of old ! 
The dead, but seeptered sovereigns “ who still rule our spirits 
from their urns,” while the contemplation of their vastness whet- 
ted the sarcasm which the sceptical Gibbon so lavishly spreads 
over false but glittering pages. These men have not learned the 
F 


90 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


lesson of the ruins. They would, like the imaginative Rienzi, 
rejoice in the restoration of the material grandeur of Rome. 
They would collect the scattered stones and cement them once 
more in their places. They would lift up the fallen arches and 
retrace the blurred inscriptions. They would again erect “ the 
nameless column with a buried base,” replace the statues on 
their crumbling pedestals, salute the gods in their abandoned 
temples, burn the incense on forgotten altars. But they forget 
that these are but, as it were, the body of the storied past, the 
lifeless body from which the soul has flown. What was that 
soul, which inspired Roman art and reared the pagan monu- 
ments, the stupendous ruins of which catch the eye, and bewil- 
der the mind of the traveller 1 It was the civilization, the 
spirit of that age. Let then the dreamers who regretfully cry 
over the ruins, again people the Coliseum with those who once 
talked and laughed there, and cheered the gladiator to his 
fratricidal deed ; let them restore the tyrants who strangled 
human liberty, and reared their throne upon its corpse ; let 
them restore, too, thefeasts, the murderousgladiatorial combats, 
the Saturnalia, the Bacchanalia, when lust and drunkenness 
were hallowed with the garb of religion ; let them, by all means, 
restore the law of slavery, which gave the master the power of 
life and death over his less fortunate brother. 

We may admire the material greatness of Rome, and praise 
the genius of many of her children ; but why should we regret 
its fall ] Has mankind gained nothing by its fall 1 In the 
eyes of those who limit man’s hopes and aspirations to earthly 
things — perishable fame and glory that pass away, we have 
lost much. But in the eyes of the Christian who believes that 
there is a higher and endless glory in store for man, we have 
gained much. Christianity offered this supernatural treasure to 
the human race. Rome, unprovoked, undertook with its 
mighty arm to crush Christianity, and for three hundred years 
kept up its warfare. The result is before us. Paganism 
crumbled into dust and ruins. Christianity lives ! What is 
it then to us, that the fall of Rome and the triumph of 
Christianity were coincident 1 Ckristians cannot fairly be 
chaiged with that fall, which Livy had foreseen in his day — 
long before the birth of Christ. The vices of its civilization 
were the true cause of Rome’s downfall } and the lesson of the 


THE rival’s stratagem. 


91 


ruins is this : that neither intellectual nor material greatness 
will endure unless built upon a foundation of sound morality. 

But this is a digression. 

Let us return to our young friends, Cyprian and Julius. 
The ground over which they had to pass was undulating, the 
earth covered with broken stones, and here and there lay 
heaps of twisted iron rods and bolts, charred beams, the 
remains of injured war machinery, broken swords, shields, 
spears and bows, scraps of harness, broken scaling ladders, 
picks, shovels, and long iron hooks, also used in scaling 
walls. Groups of soldiers were collected near the army wag- 
gons, some getting their supplies of rations, others sitting or 
lolling about on the ground, discussing events of the siege, ex- 
hibiting, exchanging or bartering trophies taken in the city, 
or singing snatches of love songs as they played at dice or other 
games. Into a little valley, through which trickled leisurely a 
tiny stream of water, the land projected at one place in three 
finger-like promontories, which ended abruptly, making an 
almost perpendicular descent from their summit to the rivulet 
of some twenty feet. On the most northerly of these three was 
situated the tent which had been occupied by Xanthus. As 
they approached it, their hearts beat rapidly and their pace 
quickened, and when at last they descended into the valley, 
and began clambering up the other side towards the tent, 
stumbling over stones and brush ‘which became displaced and 
rolled down into the rivulet with a splash, it seemed to them 
that the few feet remaining to be traversed had lengthened out 
into a furlong. In another moment they stand staring grim 
disappointment in the face. Irene is not there. Xanthus is 
not there. Their property is not there ! The men are puz- 
zled. Julius goes over to a group of men, two of whom had, 
as he knew, been on duty during his absence. He makes in- 
quiries. They know nothing about the fair object of his search 
except the fact that she and her father went away suddenly. 
Then that strong man is for a moment shaken by doubt and 
fear. He looks at Cyprian. The latter returns the pained and 
startled look. The lips of J ulius are drawn tight together, his 
brows are knit, his forehead wrinkled, and the look of a stag 
at bay overspreads his countenance. The softer nature of the 
Greek is affected differently. His pale face grows paler, the 


92 


IRENE OF CORINTBt. • 


lustre of his black eye is dimmed by an officious tear, which 
he, however, instantly brushes away, and the pursing lips dis- 
close the struggle of his affections. Has Jie been deceived ? 
Why did he trust so easily to a stranger 1 Yet why should 
Julius take in him an interest, which had about it every mark 
of sincerity 1 Was it all a dream 1 

Julius on his part, is conscious that Cyprian suspects him, and 
this dreaded imputation on his honor and veracity, gives him 
more acute pain than his disappointment at not finding Irene. 
He can bear it no longer and he breaks out passionately, “ Cy- 
prian my friend, I know your thoughts ; you have indeed 
some reason to suspect me, but you cannot believe me a villain. 
I swear by the God you worship, I have not deceived you, 
but am myself the victim of treachery. Irene would not de- 
ceive me ; she has been driven away by an enemy.” “ Julius,” 
said Cyprian, mastering his feelings, “you have read my 
thoughts aright, but they are not my convictions. I believe 
you honest, I need no [oath from you to convince me of it. 
But it is a hard fate to build up a tower of hopes and see it 
blown down in an instant by a puff of wind, as it were ! ” The 
two men then entered the tent and looked about for some 
relic, some token of the lost one. A scrap of paper, crumpled 
and blood-stained, lay half-concealed beneath a bit of bark. 
Cyprian picked it up carelessly and was on the point of tossing 
it away, when the word “Julius” written on one corner of it, 
caught his eye, and aroused his curiosity. He called the atten- 
tion of J ulius to it, as he smoothed out the wrinkles and 
detected further writing. It proved to be the note thrown 
into the tent by Servius, Xanthus had put it out of bis 
daughter’s sight, lest it should for ever recall her bereavement. 
The mystery was now solved, Julius was almost frantic with 
rage. His face became purple and the big veins stood out 
prominently on his forehead. His suspicion^ were but too well 
founded ; and the one desire of his soul was to discover his 
enemy and slay him. But where was Irene now? What 
direction had she and her father taken ? These were things 
he at once set himself to find out. 

That evening as a number of soldiers of the legion to which 
J ulius belonged were seated about a camp fire where they had 
roasted pieces of mutton on spits for their repast, J ulius began 


THE rival’s stratagem. 


93 


to recount his woes. Until now he had said nothing about his 
love for Irene, but when misfortune overtakes a man his best 
philosophy forsakes him, and he seeks the sympathy of his 
fellows. His love, he said, was not the growth of prolonged 
acquaintance, but the offspring of his first sight of Irene. 

“ Even in her sorrow, her hair matted with blood and dust, 
her face, hands, and feet bleeding, she was beautiful,” he con- 
tinued, “ but when she recovered from her fright, and on the 
discovery of her father forgot her pain, she was transcendently 
lovely ! In her [society I was happy ; in my dreams she was 
always present and a source of joy ; in battle the memory of 
her gave threefold force to i»y blows. And now, when I re- 
turn from the field of victory to claim her as a soldier’s bride, 
she is fled, gone, I know not whither, abducted, perhaps 
murdered. 0 gods, if ye have pity, show it now.” If Julius 
had not been beside himself with grief he would not have 
spoken thus. “ The gods never hear the vows of a philosopher,” 
said one of the group, without looking up ; “ if you were ano- 
ther Paris, in love with another Helen, they would hear your 
prayer at once, I am willing to wager two sestertia.” “ Yes, I 
own, fate is unpropitious to true lovers very often ; but in the 
end, true love generally wins its own,” said Julius, energeti- 
cally. “ True,” said Servius, for he too was present, “ I knew 
of a quaestor, wealthy enough to own a villa near the gardens 
of Sallust, who fell in love with a lady from Sicily. You must 

t e heard of him too, Julius,” said he, as he turned the spit 
dessly, “ his name was Fabricius.” “ I don’t remember,” 
said Julius, rather gruffly ; for since his meeting with Servius 
in the trench* on the night of Irene’s escape, the two men 
regarded each other with the aversion of rivals, and Julius 
thought he now discovered a lurking sneer in the tone of the 
man’s voice. “ Well,” continued Servius, dissembling the sting 
left by the rebuff, “ Fabricius wanted to marry this lady. But 
as the Christians were hiding in all corners, and as she was a 
Christian, he lost sight of her for a number of years. Some- 
how she was trapped, however, and as the judge was question- 
ing her about her gods, Fabricius came into the forum and 
recognized her. She was remanded to prison, where he visited 
her and offered her marriage on the spet. But she was so 
blinded, that she preferred to die rather than to worship the 


94 


IKENE OF CORINTH. 


gods of Rome. So he fell to thinking, and ended by joining 
that new sect of hers, and getting married to her in the 
prison. The day after that she was again brought before the 
judge, and condemned to death ; and, do you know, Fabricius 
went forward and told the judge that he too was a Christian, 
and would like to be burned with his wife. The judge accom- 
modated him most willingly. Well you see, that man suc- 
ceeded in finding his true love, and in getting burned up with 
her too,” and the villain here leered upon the man he hated, 
out of the corners of his blood-shot eyes. J ulius was silent ; 
he was angry, but he could not, without lowering himself, take 
notice of the ill-concealed insult. ^ 

“ You do not mean to say,” said another of the group, “ that 
Julius will become a Christian, do you 1 ” “ Why should he 

not 1 ” answered another rather testily. “ Some of the best 
men in this army are Christians,” he continued, “ and some of 
your best orators and philosophers are joining that society.” 
“ I suppose you have joined it then 1 ” said one of his neigh- 
bors who was finishing a goblet of wine. “ And why not 'i ” 
he replied, fearlessly. “ Yes, ray man, why should you not!” 
added Julius, firmly. “ I honor the man who, from conviction, 
joins any school of philosophy. I know something of this new 
philosophy (‘ He learned it from a woman,’ said Servius in 
an undertone) — and I have learned to respect its adherents.” 
There was a shade of emotion in his voice as he finished t^ 
sentence, barely appreciable, but enough to stir the sympat® 
of the only Christian in the crowd, and the resentment of the 
Pagans. Hatred of anything favorable to Christianity was 
rooted most strongly in the minds of the ignorant; for they 
among whom alone could be found believers in the gods — 
the educated classes having no faith in them — imagined that 
the doctrines of Christianity were immoral and subversive of 
patriotism. 

The soldiers dared not say anything offensive to Julius j but 
when they learned that one among them was a Christian, they 
united in persecuting him, in every way they could. As noth- 
ing, they, thought, could afiiict a Christian more than to revel 
in tales of his brethren’s sufferings, they frequently resorted to 
this dastardly devicp. Accordingly, one of their number on this 
occasion began thp recital of a harrowing tale of the sufferings 


THE rival’s stratagem. 


95 


of the Christians, who were burned in Nero’s gardens. “ It must 
have been,” he began, “ the fellow you spoke of — rather tall, 
with a sword-cut oyer the left eye, but otherwise handsome.” 
Some of his hearers nodded assent. “ They put sheepskins on 
him,” he continued ; “ then poured pitch on the wool, and tied 
him to a stake. Fifty others like him were placed at intervals 
of a rod around the imperial gardens. Oh ! it was a grand sight.” 
he added, as his eyes rolled savagely “ when they were set 
fire to at nightfall ! How brightly they burned and lit up the 
whole space about till you would almost fancy it was day 1 ” “A 
right glorious sight,” shouted all in chorus, “ finer than, the burn- 
ing of Rome itself.” “ When will these good times return,” said 
one enthusiastic individual ; low-sized even for a Roman, as 
he danced about and brandished his sword menacingly. 
“ No matter how soon they may return, though I hope 
they are very far off,” replied the Christian soldier quietly, 
“ those whose blood you thirst for, crooked little coward that 
you are, will be ready to shed it for the Master they serve, 
though in any other cause they esteem life very highly. You 
have, perhaps, already heard,” he continued, “ that in propor- 
tion as the Christians are butchered, their numbers multiply, 
so that the blood of the martyrs is, as it were, the seed from 
which fresh harvests of Christians spring up.” “ ’Twas thus,” 
said Julius, “the hyacinth is said to have sprung from the 
blood of the Laconian youth ; yet this is a still greater won- 
der. I too, trust that the brutal instinct which gloats over the 
agonies of a fellow-being, persecuted because he worships not 
OMr 'gods, will never again find its gratification,within the realms 
of Caesar.” And turning abruptly, he went away toward his 
own tent. As soon as he was out of hearing, the wrathy little 
soldier whom the Christian had branded as a coward, advanced 
toward the latter and said, “ You have called me a coward, 
and I shall have satisfaction some day.” “Perhaps,” replied 
he, “ you’ll stab me in the back, son of Thersites : but I shall 
watch you well. Remember, I cannot engage you in single 
combat — and, if I would, you are too puny — but if you ever 
come within my reach with hostile intent, I will take from you 
your chances of drinking Christian blood.” The speaker was 
a large man, and his words, delivered very deliberately and 
with a trumpet voice, overawed not only the demonstrative and 
blood-thirsty little soldier, but all his companions. 


96 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


As the “ son of Thersites ” moved off muttering curses in an 
undertone, our Christian was asked by one of the men about 
him, if it were true that the Christians killed a child to devour 
at their feasts. “ Are the Christians so ‘numerous,” he re- 
plied, “ that they can afford to murder their offspring ? ” “I 
should not think so,” said the other ; “ but could they not steal 
children from their enemies 1 ” “ If so, why has no one entered 
a ^ujt for the recovery of the children stolen 1 ” This settled 
the matter for the soldier who threw down his sword with 
impatience. “ Thus,” said he, “ are we made fools of by de- 
signing knaves. A moment’s reflection only is enough to show 
how truly you speak. Yet, absurd as it is, I always believed 
that story about the Christians until now ! ” “ And a moment’s 
reflection would cause all the enemies of the Christian name, to 
cease hating it,” rejoined his companion with energy. “ It 
seems strange that when at home every man may go to the 
Pantheon and worship what god he chooses ; but the Christian 
is murdered for adoring the God of gods, the only true God.- ^ 
It is certainly not creditable to any man’s intelligence, to be 
stirred up to hatred of his fellow man on the evidence of a 
mere rumor, started perhaps, by an idle woman or an indigent 
priest” The soldier bit his lip at this home-thrust ; but as he 
felt that he had acted unreasonably in being so credulous, he 
was candid enough to acknowledge that .he deserved the chas- 
tisement “We are more like children than men,” he replied 
after a pause — all victims of habit. You Christians are but 
few,” he continued, “ and as your meetings are held in secret, 
you leave room for suspicious against you. You deny our gods, 
and you have no other god to replace them, or at least we see 
no image of him among you. It is then hardly surprising 
that the charge of Atheism is so readily believed against you. 
Kome has grown strong under the sway of Jove, and you insult 
his images. Naturally, we resent this.” “ You speak, can- 
didly,” said the Christian, who had not expected such frank- • 
ness from a pagan, “ and if all were so open to argument and 
conviction, we should never have a return of the bloody days 
of Nero. It is true we worship in secret ; but the persecu- 
tion of our enemies has forced us to adopt that course. We 
deny the powers of Jove it is true. No reasonable being can 
worship, a god of wood or stone, and as for the divine power 


THE rival’s stratagem. 


97 


represented by your statues, which power (numen) you call 
Jupiter, or Venus or Mercury, it is so distorted that what you 
worship is no god at all, but a creation of your fancy. For in- 
stance, your Jupiter is often irascible and lecherous ; Venus is 
shockingly indecent; and Mercury is a thief. The God whom 
we adore has no statue to represent Him ; He is Truth, Justice 
and Love. He is the Almighty, all-knowing, all-seeing, and can 
have neither equal nor imperfection. When His name is* in- 
voked by the martyrs, the statues of your false gods fall to the 
gtound, as you must have often heard. This cannot happen by 
the force of magic, as you often contend ;■ for where could magic 
find power against a god 1 Is It from a weaker god ? or from 
a stronger god 1 Then the gods are divided. There is no 
thoroughly supreme god amongst them ; and, therefore, they 
are not gods by any means. That two gods, two supreme and 
yet equal beings, can exist is absurd. , You see then why our 
people so despise your gods, and show their contempt for them 
on every occasion.” 

Silence’ reigned in the group as the Christian followed up 
his defence, and all seemed impressed by its clear logic, which 
necessarily excluded a reply. 


CHAPTER IX. 



SHIPWRECK ED . 


“ Tlie sky is changed — and such a change ! O night, 

And storm and darkness, ye are wondrous strong ! ” 

* • —Childe Harold. 

jT^ITTLE did Julius dream that the enemy of his happi- 
ness was in the camp with him, shadowing him at 
every turn, and anxious to embitter the already, rancid 
cup of his misery, Servius did not dare to show positively his 
delight at his rival’s loss — this might betray him, or, which is 
the same thing, involve him in suspicion — but by his sneers, 
whenever the subject was broached he succeeded in annoying 
his rival. Many among his comrades sympathized with Julius, 
but most of them only laughed at his sufferings. In his mind 
a great contest was going on between duty and love, or more 
properly between his love for his country, and that for his bride. 
As he strolled away after the scene described in the last chap- 
ter, to where he had appointed to meet Cyprian, he revolved 
the various motives which, on the one hand, prompted him to 
quit his post to go in search of the woman he loved, and on 
the other to remain with the army, and thus give up the chance 
of finding her. Forget her he could not ; so he hurried on, 
unsettled in mind and weary in body by the force of his men- 
tal suffering. “ Oh ! if I had her fortitude,” he said at one 
time. “What a religion that must be which gives its votaries 
what soldiers would fain possess. They face the lions, they 
walk into the fire, they bend their neck to receive the stroke 
of the executioner, and let what misfortune you please fall 
upon them, they bear it without complaint ! ” 

Julius was a philosopher, who fled to his reason for support ; 
but his reason offered little to quench the fires of his revenge, 


SHIPWRECKED. 


99 


or stem the torrent of his rage and disappointment. “ Yes,” he 
thought, “ if Christianity had only had a respectable origin it 
would seem so reasonable — it is so reasonable,” he said aloud, 
“ it answers the highest yearnings of our nature ; but oh ! What 
an origin — a malefactor, a crucified! Jew ! ” And with this 
thought which scandalized him, he smothered the promptings 
of grace in his soul. Yet he only followed in the beaten path 
of ninety per cent of the Pagan world. With it Christianity 
and Judaism were identical, and the God of the Jews had been 
overcome by the gods of Rome — what better evidence of the 
superiority of Jove to Jehovah was needed. Thus they rea- 
soned, those of them who reasoned at all, and the religion 
which came from Judea and worshipped a dead Jew, as our 
Lord was called, was despised as something unworthy the least 
consideration. 

At length J ulius came to the place of rendezvous, the former 
tent of Irene and her father. As the two men stood together 
in earnest conversation, what would strike a stranger was the 
great disparity between them. Julius was a little above the 
middle height — broad shouldered, and deep chested. His 
naked arms and legs displayed a network of well developed 
muscle that would have excited the envy of an athlete. His 
complexion was dark, and his hair and eyes black, his fore- 
head high, broad and straight, the nose and. chin prominent, 
and about the mouth sat an expression of stern purpose. Alto- 
gether he was a perfect type of robust manhood. The other 
was much taller, of a light complexion and auburn hair, his 
eyes were blue, his forehead low, but very broad, and his other 
features chiselled with the perfection of a model. His frame 
was lithe and sinewy ; and although much younger than Julius, 
he looked nearly as old, so greatly had his recent sickness and 
hardships told upon him. 

“ You agree with me then,” said Julius to Cyprian, appa- 
rently after a long argument. “ I do perfectly,” replied the 
latter. “ Your prospects for life would be ruined by such a 
rash act as that of leaving the army now. Though I would 
feel happier with you, I can go forth in search of my sister ; 
and if I find her you will know of the discovery, if it be pos- 
sible for me to reach , you by letter.” “I shall institute every 
possible inquiry myself,” said Julius,” and I swear by the 


100 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


immortals, I shall never wed a woman unless it be Irene.” 
They had soon made their arrangements. Cyprian, supplied 
with a large sum of money by his friend, set out in search of 
his sister, and Julius returned sorrowful, yet hopeful, to his 
duty. 

By the order of Titus some more time was spent in looking 
for Simon in the caves, but the attempt was given up, and the 
General concluded to set out for Rome. Before starting, how- 
ever, he gave orders to raze to the ground every structure, and 
every part of the walls still standing, except the towers of 
Phasaelus, Hippicus, and Mariamne, which would serve as 
watch-towers and were to be regarded as monuments indicating 
the place where once had stood the great City of Jerusalem ; 
and a portion of the western wall, which would be a sort of 
defence for the garrison he intended to leave there. From the 
scenes of his toils and his victories, Titus turned joyfplly away. 
A conqueror often lingers about the spot which has brought 
him glory — there is such a fascination in it — but the laurels 
won by the Roman General were bought at too dear a price to 
afford him much gratihcation. His heart was tender, and all 
through the siege he had seized on every occasion to bring it 
to an end by peaceful means. He shuddered at the fearful 
loss of life, and the destruction of property and of art ; and 
only his duty, as he understood it, urged him to push matters 
to their uttermost limit. When all was over he turned his 
back on the ruined city with the air of a man who has had to 
perform an unpleasant task. He first went westward to Caesarea, 
and after spending some time there proceeded to Caesarea Phil- 
ippi, another port further north where he remained during the 
winter. Outdoor sports were furnished on all festivals in this 
city ; but what most pleased the mob were the wild beast 
shows, in which ^reat numbers of Jewish captives became food 
for the lions. 

One day as Titus ^as reposing after a hearty meal, he was 
aroused by the vociferous shouting of the soldiers and at once 
seizing his sword he proceeded to 'find out its cause. ' “ Simon 
is taken, Simon is taken.” “ Long live the General.” “ To the 
lions with the tyrant,” and such like cries which greeted his 
appearance explained all. After many days of laborious but 
fruitless work in the caves where he had hidden, the monster 


SHIPWRECKED. 


101 


Simon at length decided to meet his fate. He had endeavored 
to excavate a passage to some place of safety, but his provisions 
fell short and to make matters worse he came against a stratum 
of rock which forbade his further progress. In this extremity 
he yielded to necessity, and coming out of his cover clothed in 
white sought at first by this stratagem to escape. But his fate 
was upon him ; and he surrendered without a struggle to a 
Roman guard. Great was the rejoicing in the camp, when 
this man, in whom were concentrated all the passions of a wild 
beast, was brought up from Jerusalem and presented to the 
victorious Roman ; but to none was the gratification so com- 
plete as to Titus himself, who all along was anxious to have 
this beast caged, to grace his triumph. 

Let us now turn our eyes eastward in order to learn some- 
thing of Irene and Xanthus whom we have lost sight of for a 
time. After setting sail from Alexandria favorable winds 
carried their vessel in the direction of the port they were mak- 
ing for ; but on the third day the treacherous east wind sud- 
denly swooped down upon them, churning up the blue waters 
of the Mediterranean into a silvery foam, tearing the square 
sails from the gaskets and tossing the ship about in a manner 
that foretold speedy destruction. For two days the storm raged 
and the huge masses of water seemed to blend with the horizon. 
Immense mountains were suddenly formed, upon whose peaks 
the vessel danced, when almost instantly they would sink and 
dissolve to be replaced by a frightful watery valley where she 
would be walled in like Pharaoh’s host, and apparently lost in 
utter and abysmal depths. Then the wind changed and for a 
few hours the chop-sea caused the ship’s timbers to creak and 
gape, thus admitting great “quantities of water to the hold. 
Only those who have had the actual experience of such a situ- 
ation can form an idea of the agony it produces. The wildest 
fancies of an opium dream are but weak images either of the 
wild fury of the sea when angered by the gale, or of the mental 
sufferings of him who feels that the treacherous deep is thirst- 
ing for his life, and slowly but surely tearing away from his 
ever weakening grasp the planks that only serve to prolong his 
wan despair. 

Sails are torn to ribbons and masts go by the board; the seams 
gape wider and wider till at last a huge sea wrenches off the 


102 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


rudder, and with it several timbers on the port side,' just at the 
watermark. With a strange gurgling sound the waters rush 
madly through the opening, the vessel stands almost upright 
for the space of a minute, and then plunges stern foremost into 
the seething depths, carrying with it all who have not the pre- 
sence of mind to leap into the sea and thus avoid the suction. 
Five minutes later some spars and broken planks, with perhaps 
a few extra bubbles were the only epitaph of those who perished 
in the foundered ship. Irene and her father were among those 
who leaped into the sea. Almost at the same moment he was 
struck dead by a piece of taffrail which was thrown upon him ; 
but Irene was fortunate in finding a spar, to which she clung, 
ignorant of her father’s fate. Throughout the long and star- 
less night she kept afloat, for the sea apparently appeased by 
so many victims soon became calm. For an hour or more she 
held on with the energy of despair t6 the bit of wood. Then her 
thoughts, which had wandered over a thousand objects, chiefly 
the weird figments of her imagination, took a clearer shape ; 
and with the relaxation of her nerves all the dread reality of 
her position forced itself upon her clear intellect. Not less 
dreadful perhaps was the real than the fancied danger ; but the 
courageous resolve of reason to face a danger that is known 
induces a calm which is ever wanting when the extent of the 
peril is wholly unknown, or but partially apprehended. 

She was now alone in the rolling wat«r. The wind had died 
away and the only sound audible was the peculiar monotonous 
lisp of the wave crests, as they curled over and broke into 
phosphorescent foam. A few drowsy stars seemed to wearily 
await the dawn, to disappear -^they also — from the lonely 
scene. How long will this continue 1 How long will she be 
able to hold on to her frail support ? Already a drowsiness 
begins to creep over her ; but she struggles with it, and ever 
and anon tightens her grasp on the spar. She calculates the 
chances of a rescue, when day will dawn, that is, if she be able 
to survive so long. Where she was, she knew not, save that 
she had heard some of the sailors say, several hours before the 
shipwreck, that they were near the isle of Stromboli. But 
whither had she drifted since ? She might be quite n ea 
that barren and uninhabited coast, in which case she would 
perish in sight of land ; or she might have been carried out to 


SHIPWRECKED. 


103 


sea, far from the course of vessels. Her conclusion was that 
her term of life was at hand, and indeed she thought that she 
cared little, now that her father was surely lost. Neverthe- 
less, she did not quite despair. No one ever does, except the 
determined and insane suicide. 

Love of life surpasses all other loves, and grows strong on 
the very weakness of hope ; but Irene, whose religious con- 
victions were ever vigorous, was not altogether without conso- 
lation in these supreme moments. Passing in review her whole 
life, she was confident that she had not seriously offended her 
Creator. Would He abandon her who had always loved Him, 
quench her young life just when she was about to taste of its 
pleasures.. But again she thought, would it be a mark of His 
displeasure if she should perish now, abandoned by the whole 
world ? She rightly reasoned that it would not. “ If I die 
now,” she said to herself, with a perfect Christian resignation, 
“ only my body shall perish, but my spirit will go forth to my 
Redeemer. Welcome death then,” she cried aloud, “ thou art 
but the door to Heaven.” What comfort doth not Christianity 
afford its true children. When all hope is lost of a life that 
seems so fair, it points to the certain possession of another still 
fairer, in comparison with which the present at its best and 
brightest, is but a gloomy dreary pilgrimage. From the first 
sign of danger Irene had recommended herself to God’s mercy 
and to the intercession of her favorite, St. Paul ; but far from 
losing confidence at the apparent rejection of her prayer for 
safety, she redoubled the fervor of her petition, changing only 
its form. She had asked for life; it seemed to be denied her ; 
she then asked for mercy and forgiveness. 

The excitement resulting from fear and the subsequent ex- 
posure were at length asserting their power. She found her- 
self gradually sinking and unable to resist the torpor that 
crept upon her. Her arms now hung limp across the spar, 
and her head fell forward upon them. The dawn had far 
advanced. For a moment she revived, looked vacantly at the 
long streak of gray light that struggled with the sea on the 
horizon, muttered a single “ Mercy my S.aviour,” and sank into 
the now placid waters. 



CHAPTER X. 

AN ADVENTURE. 


§ FTER the sorrowful parting between Julius and Cyprian, 
the latter set out for Corinth*, hoping that ultimately 
his father and sister would return to his birthplace. 
Nor was this an easy matter in those days. True, the Romans 
had made good roads throughout every province of the Empire, 
as a primary step towards introducing their civilization or 
barbarism as the Greeks called it. These roads were as straight 
as possible, and were composed of sand, gravel and cement, 
•with large stones — often granite — and. so well constructed that 
many of them are in good repair to-day. At intervals of about 
five miles along these roads, were posts or stations, provided 
with several relays of horses for government use. While these 
roads facilitated the march of the Roman legions, and made 
easy the despatch of news from the uttermost boundaries of 
the empire to the Roman Senate, they also became the resort 
of bandits and every kind of marauders. If this was true even 
in times of peace, it was more strictly true when the East was 
ablaze with war and sedition. To have money or valuables 
while travelling alone, was to be made, very probably, a 
victim of robbery ; and to conceal valuables so as to deceive 
highwaymen, became a forgotten art. Corinth in those days, 
two hundred years after its destruction by Mummius, had 
recovered its maritime celebrity, and was now the great west- 
ern seat of commerce and luxury combined. The ruthless hand 
of the Roman barbarian had stripped it, indeed, of its poetry 
in stone ; and it now no longer stood foremost in the phalanx 
of Hellenic bravery. The Achaean Republics dwelt only in 
history 3 and the spirit of the virtuous Aratus brooded over . 


AN ADVENTURE. 


105 


the ashes of a stricken patriotism. Ephesus too, where St* 
John had fixed his See, was a great seaport, and one of the 
greatest cities of Asia. Here also Cyprian was acquainted ; 
aud though it seemed to him better to go directly to his birth- 
place, he was on reflection carried away by an unconquerable 
wish to go first to the great Asiatic capital, 

A journey by land would bring him through many cities, in 
one or other of which it was just possible he might find his 
relatives; but as we said before, it was exceedingly perilous. 
Therefore, he concluded to embark from the nearest seaport. 
The route lay almost due north-east from Joppa to Crete ; 
thence north through the Icarian Sea, passing close to Patmos 
on the left ; and finally north-west through the Straits between 
Samos and Mycale. It was at that time a beautiful voyage, when 
the weather was favorable ; the numerous rocky isles that crown 
the .^Egean coming one after another slowly to view, in such 
a way that they hardly lost sight of one, when another could 
be seen faintly in the distance. Some of these islands were 
very fertile, covered with green fields and luxuriant vegetation ; 
others with dense forests and undergrowth ; others again were 
mere volcanic rocks, upon which grew a few shrubs, with here 
and there an occasional barkless and limbless pine — a withered 
and forlorn sentinel, watching, as it were, over the graves of 
its fallen companions. Unlike the terrible experience of his 
sister, who had set out only a few days before him, his was a 
voyage that would have roused any mortal to ecstasies of de- 
light. Indeed Cyprian for a while forgot his misfortunes ; and 
though in the still hours .of night he would now and then wake 
from sleep, and imagine himself among his friends, and lie 
sleepless, brooding over his disappointment ; yet so beautiful 
was the weather, and so frequent the change of scene, that the 
morning always brought him^ peace and oblivion of his trials. 
On the ninth day they approached the spacious harbor of the 
Ephesians. As it came in sight, the exalted symmetry of its- 
famous temple captivated the eye of every beholder. The 
pagan seamen, some from habit, others piously, saluted the sta- 
tues of Diana, as they did those of Juno in passing Samos-^ 
the city, by the way, where they believed that proud goddess 
to have been born. The bronze statues of Samos were of world- 
wide fame ; for in that island of hardy seamen and skilful arti- 
G 


106 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


fleers, they are said to have been flrst mada Many of them 
studded the pedestals that formed the approach to Diana’s tem- 
ple at Ephesus ; and within and about that great structure — 
whose remains are to-day but broken shafts and heaps of rub- 
bish, were numerous statues in marble, executed by the flnest 
sculptors of the day. There, too, were exposed the paintings 
of masters, who sought for fame and pupils, by those quasi- 
pious gifts to the sylvan goddess. “ Why do you not salute 
the goddess ? ” said one observant sailor, who had noticed that 
Cyprian made no demonstration in honor of Diana — “ Every 
man,” he continued, “ must do honor to her who protects 
* these shores. I wouldn’t like to embark without flrst paying 
her my homage, and every sailor is exact in asking her pro- 
tection.” He finished the sentence with a characteristic 
nautical oath — for sailors then, as now, were strangely given 
over to the use of expletives. Cyprian, who was musing on 
the beauty of the magnificent structure which lay between the 
shore and the city, turned round abruptly upon the man who 
had disturbed his reverie, and inquired rather playfully who 
that lady n^ght be ? The seaman looked at once indignant, 
and amazed. “ Could any one be so ignorant,” he thought. 
“ Impossible ; therefore this man is either a philosopher or a 
Christian, who despises the gods. If I were the captain,” said 
he, when his anger allowed him at length to master words, “ I 
would throw you overboard, blasphemer of the immortals.” 
“ Ah ! surely you couldn’t be so cruel,” said Cyprian, chidingly. 
“ I hate all philosophers and Christians,” added the sailor, with 
an inquiring glance at the stranger. “ They deny our gods. They 
are all atheists. We could not live without our gods; we 
could not in safety sail upon the waters. How often have they 
saved me, when I invoked them, and I have already hung 
three tablets in yonder temple as votive offerings to good 
Diana.” Cyprian knew by his manner’ that this man was at 
least in earnest, and he therefore ceased to ridicule his worship, 
and in a soothing voice continued the conversation thus: 
“ Has Diana, my friend, do you think, power to do as she 
wishes without hindrance from any one ? ” The man was a 
little perplexed by this queer question, and replied : “ Well, 

she owes reverence to Jupiter, the King of Olympus.” “ But,” 
said the Corinthian, “ was not Jupiter himself once in danger 


AN ADVENTURE. 


107 


from his father Saturn, whom he afterwards deposed ? ” “I 
have heard so,” said the sailor. “ Is Jupiter then the supreme 
god,” continued Cyprian. “ Yes,” replied the man of the sea. 

Well, then,” said Cyprian, “ Saturn must have been supreme, 
too ? ” “ Yes, in his time, I suppose,” said the sailor, not 

clearly seeing the abyss this admission hurled him into. 
“ Therefore,” continued Cyprian blandly, “ Saturn must have 
had a supreme will, which naught could oppose, else he was 
in no wise supreme 1 ” The sailor was dumfounded, and re- 
mained silent. “Yet,” Cyprian proceeded, “ Jupiter upsets 
his government and becomes as powerful as his father. 
Neither of them is supreme, for Jove in turn may be dethroned 
by some more powerful son, and so on for ever. Again, you 
admit that Jove can do nothing against the decrees of fate V’ 
“ It is true,” said the sailor. “ Very well then, fate is stronger 
than he, that is, again, Jove is not supreme. Now, I believe 
that a God must be supreme or nothing. There is then only one 
such, and althougl you may fancy that Diana or Juno or Minerva 
heard your prayers, and rescued you often from a watery grave, I 
believe no such thing. I believe that these gods that you worship 
have no power ; are in fact no gods at all. But I worship 
and pray to one all-powerful God who rules the universe.” 
This, although very simple reasoning, was yet beyond the 
capacity of the poor sailor, who rushed off after delivering this 
'final shot at the philosopher or Christian, he could not tell 
which : “ Great is Diana of the Ephesians.” “ Oh ! ” said the 
young man when left alone, “ what blindness is this, that pre- 
vents their seeing evident truths.” Yet when he looked again 
upon the wonderful pile before him, and with an aesthetic eye 
scanned the temple from the carved pedestals of the numerous 
columns, wliich supported the expansive roof, up the fluted 
shafts, to the carved and horned Ionic caps, the cornices and 
pediments, and thence in perspective along the magnifi- 
cent rows of statues and bronzes, and the polished marble 
wall with its protecting buttresses, he could not help exclaim- 
ing — “ A miracle alone can convert from their idolatrous habits 
a people who thus honor a lie.” Indeed a miracle in the 
moral order, that is a miracle operating a change in the estab- 
lished habits of men was necessary to bring a people, whose 
idolatrous worship was associated with the most graceful forms 


108 - 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


and melodious sounds; with the most beautiful and elegant 
types in architecture as in all other arts — a worship whose 
objects danced in every fountain and reposed in every flower j 
sung by the silver tongue of unrivalled poets and defended by 
the 'matchless eloquence, not of orators or sages only, but of 
story, the living hero-history of a thousand years ! What 
less than a miracle could turn the Greek from the religion which 
deified his ancestors and placed his country, as he was taught 
from infancy to believe, in the foremost rank of civilization ? 
Yet the fact stands, that the change has been wrought. As our 
young hero reached the landing place, he saw a vast procession, 
in which were many young women gayly dressed, and their 
hair decorated with fillets and wreaths of white flowers ; then 
a multitude of men, and many children, some of them only 
partially clad. At the head of this procession, two white steers, 
also decked with wreaths which seemed to be attached to their 
horns, were Jed to execution. The procession entered the 
temple, while the young women, priestesses of Diana, chanted 
alternate verses of a hymn, the refrain of which was at times 
caught up and repeated by the throng. It was the hour for 
sacrifice ; and Ephesus was paying its wonted honor to its 
protectress. 

At that moment the young man became violently agitated, 
as he seemed to hear within him a voice which said, “You are 
chosen to help destroy this superstition.” For a moment he 
stood, as if riveted to the ground, and then as he saw that he 
was attracting attention, he moved on aimlessly to avoid the 
throng. 

His route lay through a wilderness of white marble palaces, 
with here and there a shrine, the private temple of some rich, 
and, in his way, pious citizen. Everywhere slaves were em- 
ployed pruning inviting shade trees, culling flowers from rich 
and well kept beds to be woven into wreaths and other offerings 
to the goddess, or training the tendrils of honey-suckle and 
other sweet-scented creeping plants, to follow various curves, 
and describe certain fancy or geometric figures upon and be- 
tween the marble shafts of vine clad arcades. Yet all the 
beauty and magnificence of the surroundings made no impres- 
sion upon Cyprian,’ whose thoughts kept revolving the sum- 
mons that he had received, to become a minister of Christ. 


AN ADVENTURE. 


109 


“ It must have been a fancy/’ he kept repeating to himself — 
though sometimes loud enough to be heard by a passer-by — as 
various explanations of the mystery arose in his mind. But 
how could a fancy take such a hold on him ? Was he 
beside himself % Perhaps his suffering had weakened his mind, 
and he was now really mad 1 At this stage of his meditations, 
and just as he had passed the limits of the city proper, an event 
occurred which rapidly convinced him that he was really in 
the full possession of his reason. He was passing along a high 
wall which enclosed an immense demesne, when he heard a 
rapid footstep proceeding from around the corner, which was 
some fifty yards before him. He stood and listened ; other 
footsteps quickly followed, then confused voices, among which 
he heard this, “ kill the child a cry of terror, the clash of 
swords, a hilarious shout, and — He sprang forward to the 
corner, and to his horror, there lay a female slave, half-naked, 
and drenched with blood, which flowed from a wound in her 
neck. To her breast she pressed her babe, a mere infant, and 
was feebly endeavouring to staunch its life blood with a part 
of her scant clothing. She was dying, but the mother’s instinct 
lived for her child. No one besides was present, the murder- 
ers having re-entered the demesne, through a small gate near 
the scene of their crime. As soon as the woman beheld the 
young man, her eye kindled, and she made upon her forehead 
the sign of the cross. This was the pass-word, as it were, by 
which Christians recognized one another. Cyprian also signed 
himself with the emblem of the redemption, and as he raised 
the woman to a sitting posture with her back against the 
wall, asked her who were her assailants, and what their motive. 
“ Bring water, brother,”, she replied, and blood poured at each 
word from her mouth, “ baptize the infant, before it die.” 
Like lightning, the young man was away to the nearest foun- 
tain, and having wrenched off a shell that was attached thereto 
by a chain, for public use, he filled it and ran back to do the 
holy work. He was not a moment too soon, for just as he 
had said, “and of the Holy Ghost,” the last words of the form 
which he spoke, while he poured the cleansing water on the 
infant’s head, its happy soul passed away, and at the same 
instant its mother with the word “ Jesus on her quivering 
lips, fell forward, and closed her eyes on a world that had 


110 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


literally been to her a vale of tears. She died without a word 
or a sign that would give a clue to her history ; and it is but 
a conjecture, that she was murdered on account of her faith. 
As Cyprian knelt and offered a prayer to the throne of God 
for the peaceful repose of her soul, he felt again, rather than 
heard that interior voice, no longer doubtful, calling him to 
battle for his Lord. 

He now found himself in a situation at onqe delicate and dan- 
gerous — where his purity and humanity were open to attack. 
At any moment he might be discovered near a corpse, the 
red blood that flowed from the wounds of both mother and 
child sticking to his hands and garments. Of course she was 
but a slave ; still her master or mistress would value her, per- 
haps, at a large price. He was a stranger too in the city, and 
how could he prove his innocence, except, perhaps, by the ab- 
sence of weapons, if anyone would accuse him of the murder ! 
In order to clear himself of the charge, and explain his presence 
there, he would have to confess that he was a Christian, and 
this would be taken perhaps, as evidence enough of his guilt. 
Prudence ^then advised him to leave the spot as quickly as pos- 
sible. 

The persecutions that had raged throughout the Roman Em- 
pire during the reign of Nero, and that swept away thousands 
of Christians, plundered and beggared others, left all who 
survived under a cloud of villainous suspicions, aroused by 
cruel and oft-repeated calumnies. Although the death of the 
tyrant suspended the persecution, still, during the reigns of 
Galba, Otho and Vitellius, the whole tendency and spirit of 
the times progressed — or rather went backwards in one direc- 
tion — towards a total extirpation of the Christians. Like a 
tiger which becomes furious by the taste of blood, the Pagans 
grew more and more savage and relentless after each execution, 
in their hatred of those who denied their gods. True, edicts 
no longer existed to urge them to deeds of public and legal 
bloodshed ; but they supplied the absence of these by private 
insult and abuse, as well as by public prosecutions under false 
and trumped up charges. Their superstitions were a great 
factor in this hostile spirit. Taught from childhood to believe, 
in a plurality of gods, or genii having power in various degrees, 
whether to do good or to hurt them, they sought by the perver- 


AN ADVENTURE. 


Ill 


sion of . an instinct natural to every man, to propitiate these 
^ numerous divinities, and to retain the good will of as many of 
‘them as possible. Therefore, whether they rejoiced or mourned, 
in their private entertainments as in their public games, when- 
ever they entered or left their houses, when they set out for a 
pleasure trip, and when they were about to engage in battle, 
they would propitiate the favor of the gods by some supersti- 
tious act of devotion. What then could they think of the 
Christians who abhorred the incense of the smoking altars, 
who would put out the undying flames, who rejected the laurel 
wreaths, avoided the sacred groves, spat upon the images, and 
shuddered when compelled to witness a sacrifice. The priests 
seeing that their incomes were in danger, worked upon the 
superstitious minds of their disciples, and insinuated, that a 
people who thus disregarded, and disrespected the national gods, 
were a constant source of danger, inasmuch as they would 
bring down the wrath of heaven upon the nation. 

Those who have read some history know how such argu- 
ments, at a much more recent date, have often wrought up the 
feelings of an ignorant and brutal mob, till they found vent in 
“No popery ” riots ; when houses and churches were pillaged 
and burned, and human beings of all ages subjected to many 
indignities, even murdered. 

Another class of men, too, encouraged this violent spirit, 
namely, the merchants, whose living depended upon the sale 
of provisions for the temples, and victims for the sacrifices ; and 
the artificers in brass and ffcone, who fashioned idols and altars 
for the many shrines. Besides their superstition, another cause 
contributed to the spirit of persecution then rampant. While 
the Jews hated the Christians as a graceless sect, fallen off from 
Judaism, and were quite willing, in consequence, to join with 
the Pagans in persecuting them, they were at this time sub- 
ject to gross insult and often violence throughout the East, on 
account of their rebellions and frequent insurrections against 
the Roman power. The antagonism to the Jews extended to 
the Christians who were still regarded as Israelites, pure and 
simple, notwithstanding the protests of both parties ; conse- 
quently when some fresh sedition of J ews sacrificed a number 
of Pagans, the Christians were at once attacked, and the wrong 
avenged in their blood. It was therefore almost impossible, 


112 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


even in times of comparative peace, for a Christian to obtain a 
fair trial, or to escape Vith his life if the charge against him 
were in any way punishable with death. The reader will under- 
stand, therefore, why Cyprian was so anxious to avoid detec- 
tion near the scene of a crime, though his feelings as . a man and 
a Christian, impelled him strongly to risk all, and endeavor to 
secure decent burial for the murdered ones. Now when a man 
finds that his life, or even his honor, is in danger, and he feels 
that although innocent of crime, a web of circumstances sur- 
rounds him and makes him appear guilty, he must indeed have 
strong nerves and an unusually vigorous character to keep his 
countenance under control and maintain a calm demeanor. 
Most men sicken at the apprehension of such a situation, and 
if really placed in it in presence of strangers, betray such 
emotion as would lead to a grave suspicion, at least, of their 
guilt. With such complex feelings of anguish and regret Cy- 
prian fled from the street, having first concealed the blood on 
his hands and clothing with dust, which he sprinkled freely 
upon them.. He had not gone far, however, when he was met 
by two men, one of whom was very old, the other middle-aged, 
but both of quiet mien and shabby dress. As they came nearer, 
the lips of the older one seemed to move alternately with those 
of his companion as if they were repeating verses one to the 
other. Cyprian at once recognized by this fact that they were 
a bishop and his deacon, who thus recited the Psalter of David 
as they went through the streets. He saluted them, therefore, 
and told them of his adventure. Tie older man, who was no 
other than St. J ohn the beloved disciple, laid his hand tenderly 
on Cyprian’s shoulder, and welcomed him to the Episcopal City 
of the Evangelist. Instead of enemies he had met with friends, 
and after a half hour’s walk by a circuitous route, he sat down 
with the Apostle and his deacon to a frugal repast. 

The quarter where they dwelt was the poorest part of the 
suburban city, where the market-gardeners and vine-growers, 
who supplied the city tables, led their peaceful though labo- 
rious-lives. Although many philosophers had joined the ranks 
of the converts, with now and then a professional man, the 
great majority were of the lower and middle classes of society. 
By the lower class we mean slaves ; for it was they who in 
those days held the place now occupied in civilized countries 


AN ADVENTURE. 


118 


by the poorest class. Among them were converted Jews, 
Greeks and Syrians, with many natives of the city or of other 
parts of Asia Minor. Their language, therefore, was as varied 
as their nationality ; but Greek was the language known or 
spoken more or less accurately by all, and was consequently 
used in the’ services of the Church. After the meal the young 
Cyprian, at the request of St. John, went into a little room 
apart, where he related to the Apostle the eventful history of 
the past year. He told him how his father had often seen the 
Apostle Paul, who though be had spoken to the Lord regret- 
ted not having known Him personally, as did the other Apos- 
tles. At the mention of the Lord’s name tears stole down the 
old man’s cheeks, and as he raised his eyes heavenward, he 
seemed to gaze fixedly on the face of Him whose beloved dis- 
ciple he was. He recounted to the young man some facts in 
the life of the Lord which are not recorded in the Sacred 
Books ; and as he spoke Cyprian’s heart throbbed within him, 
his throat became dry, and he almost choked for the sobs that 
involuntarily escaped him. As he often afterwards said, when 
relating this interview, — no man could fail to love Jesus if he 
but once heard the story of His life well told. He confessed to 
the Apostle the strange feeling he had experienced near the 
famous temple of Diana, and again when he baptized the dying 
infant. “ My son,” said the august disciple, “ it seems like 
the voice of the Lord when He called to a certain young man 
to follow Him, if he wished to be perfect. You will be more 
like our Master if you jiake up your cross and follow Him. As 
He once said, ‘ the harvest is ripe, but the laborers are few : ’ 
so it is now. We have not enough of ministers to go forth 
and preach to those who sit in darkness and the shadow of 
death ; and to save the converts from the treachery of men 
like Ebion and Cerinthus, who mislead many and allure them 
to destruction. You have fought with the arms of the flesh,”con- 
tinued the Apostle, “ and you know what sacrifices the soldier 
must make in a cause, which, however holy, promises only a 
temporal reward. How much better then would it not be to 
bear privations which may not be more severe than those you 
know of, in the cause of Him whose reward is a throne in a 
kingdom without end 1 ” Cyprian was silent for a time. He 
feared more the woe pronounced againt those who look back, 


114 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


once they have undertaken to work in the vineyard of the Lord, 
than the actual sacrifices to be made in His service. Throw- 
ing himself therefore upon his knees before the venerable Apos- 
tle, he said, “I confess that l am overwhelmed with, as it were, 
a whirlwind of emotions. 1 wish to do God’s holy will, but I 
fear this responsibility.” “ Arise,” said St. John,* “ arise my 
son, you are our guest, take time and consider your choice. In 
a week God will show you more clearly what you shall do.” 

I 


o 


CHAPTER XI. 



ZION’S DAUGHTER A SLAVK 

'HAT meanwhile had become of Anna ? The reader will 
remember that she disappeared from the sight both 
of Cyprian and of Julius, on the last day of the siege, 
and could not afterwards be found. After the departure of 
J ulius to see Titus, in behalf of his new found friends, Cyprian 
sank into a kind of stupor, which on account of his weakness, . 
took the appearance of death. Fearing the result, Anna crept 
quickly away from the apartment to search for some water. 
She had not gone far, before several soldiers, who had fentered 
for purposes of plunder, discovered her and dragged her away 
*io swell the vast number of captives, who were to be sold into 
slavery. Immediately after the fall of the city, rapid couriers 
were despatched to Vespasian, and to Rome, to inform the 
Senate of the victory. The news also spread into Egypt and 
Asia Minor, together with the report that numberless slaves 
were to be sold at a cheap rate. Daily, large numbers were 
subjected to the inspection of buyers, who handled them as 
they would cattle, in order to make a good purchase. Young, 
healthy women were most in demand, and consequently 
brought the highest price. 

As the army marched from city to city, after the siege, these 
pri^^oners were brought along, and sold as opportunity offered. 
Escape was, of course, impossible, and many who were tempted 
to make the trial were at once despatched without mercy. 
An immense amount of spoil was collected in Jerusalem, and 
carried off by order of the general ; and much more perhaps 
was appropriated in private by the soldiery. But the sum of 
money which poured into the treasury from the sale of the un- 
fortunate Jewish captives, was perhaps far beyond the combined 
'^alue of all the rest Anna, with a dozen other females, was 


lie 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


bought by an Egyptian > merchant, and after a few days was 
shipped to Alexandria. Like Irene, she experienced a rough 
voyage, and, as it was her first on sea, a'voyage which seemed 
to her to have but one possible ending. Nevertheless they 
arrived in three weeks in the old and wonderful port, which 
has since witnessed so many naval scenes. While still miles 
from land, one might see the famous Pharos, or lighthouse, 
standing on the island of that name. This wondrous work, 
which was at the date of our story already more than three 
hundi’ed and fifty years old, was indeed a worthy beacon of so 
great a city as Alexandria, Egyptians, Greeks and J ews, were 
comprised in its population, which was as famous for the patron- 
age it bestowed on learning, as for the encouragement it gave 
to commerce and the arts. Its wonderful library, bn whose 
shelves lay in manuscript form the learned labors of all anti- 
quity, to the extent of nearly a million volumes, furnished men- 
tal food to the thousands and thousands of ambitious youths, 
who, generation after generation, crowded its alcoves, to pe- 
ruse its varied pages, or to listen to lectures given by men who 
devoted themselves there to a life of teaching and study. 
This library suffered many times from the carelessness or wan- 
ton ignorance of conquerors. Several times it was impaired to 
the extent of thousands of volumes, which were soon, however, 
replaced ; and it remained for the ingenious malice of Omar 
the Mohammedan Prince, to utterly destroy this venerable 
collection, and thereby to produce, as it were, a total and per- 
petual eclipse of the sun in the learned firmament. The few 
pages of ancient history, eloquence and poetry, called the clas- 
sics, preserved until our age, by the industry of mediaeval 
monks, are but shreds of the vast store of Greek and Latin 
literature, which was once the delight of the scholar or the 
sage. Magnificent temples, models of Egyptian architecture, 
rose in majestic proportions in many parts of the city, while 
pointed shafts, obelisks covered with mysterious writing in 
hieroglyphic characters, stood like rigid sentinels guarding 
the memory of deeds that once were interesting, though no 
longer so, to the inhabitants of Egypt’s capital. Possessing 
the chief seaport on the African coast, and one of the greatest 
of the Mediterranean sea, Alexandria’s citizens were wealthy, 
but not (as we often have to deplore) indolent. From its 


zion’s daughter a slave. 


117 


wharves were shipped immense quantities of grain to supply the 
demand of the Roman market ; therefore its merchants were 
kept active in pursuit of a business which required strict and 
constant attention. A special interest attached to this city for 
Christians, who used extensively the Septuagint or Greek trans- 
lation of the Old Testament made during the reign of Ptolemy, 
two hundred and eighty-five years before the birth of Christ. 
As Anna neared the city, her heart was filled with various 
emotions. She was not sufficiently schooled in Christian 
virtues to bear the vicissitudes of fortune with a calm soul, 
and from the moment of her capture, and sale into slavery, 
till she came in sight of Alexandria, she sat or lay weeping and . 
disconsolate. But now as she sat in the bow of the vessel, and 
gazed upon the new and wonderful sights springing into exis- 
tence, as it were, before her, she began to be interested. She 
knew that St. Mark, the Evangelist, had founded a Christian 
colony in this city ; she had been told it by Irene ; but how 
was she to discover its location ? Would she remain in the 
city, or be transported beyond its limits into the desert 1 
Would she ever again meet a Christian, or have an opportu- 
nity of receiving baptism 1 Would she be harshly treated, or 
the contrary ? Would she ever escape; and, what was certainly 
only remotely possible, would she ever again meet her friend 
Cyprian ? “ Friend ” ! she repeated aloud : how cold the world 

now seemed ! Was he only her friend i And while she 
gazed vacantly at the long rows of vessels, some with sails, some 
without, as they entered the harbor, an inexpressible longing 
for a distant something — definite only in one respect, that .it 
was far off — associated itself in her youthful mind with the 
name of Cyprian. The memory of her brother — she had called 
liirri brother — would not awake such a feeling : nor even that 
of her murdered father. This strange feeling was an agony, 
so intense as to blunt the sense of pain, blended with a sweet- 
ness, so delicate and evanescent, as to vanish instantly when its 
presence was detected. It was a medley of contradictions ; a 
spasm of incongruities ; an aurora of joyous hope, and a mid- 
night of inky despair. Her eyes swam ; her head seemed to 
whirl and her frame shook as if pierced by a chill wind, when 
a maddening conviction rushed upon her that she loved Cy- 
prian, and that she and her lover were never more to meet ! She > 


IIS 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


had found and lost him all too soon ; and she was- so crazed 
by the thought, that she was tempted to throw herself into the 
water, there to end all and forget all, and she might have 
done so, had not another slave, who read her suffering in her 
face, glided softly up to her, and whispered a word of consola- 
tion. The voice was strange, and its accents harsh, for the 
speaker was an Indian woman, dark in color, and only par- 
tially acquainted with the Greek tongue. She had often seen 
the daughter of the High Priest, during the siege of Jerusalem, 
when she lived, a slave, in the household of Macarias. She' 
was born on the banks of the Indus, of a mother who was also 
a slave ; and after many changes of masters and several trans- 
fers from her own country to Persia, thence to Armenia, and 
finally to Palestine, she was bought up by the same trader who 
had purchased our Anna from among the Jewish captives. 

After the death of Macarias, his family was reduced to slav- 
ery by Simon, while the servants on the contrary, by some 
freak of the tyrant’s will were all set at liberty. The Indian’s 
freedom was of course, short-lived; but this was to her of 
little consequence, since she had never enjoyed any of the 
swpets of real liberty. She was sitting on a “Coil of rope, 
when Anna was passing through the ordeal we have endea- 
vored to describe above ; and she instinctively felt that the 
intensity of the young girl’s sufferings would drive her to 
some rash act. This is why she approached the daughter of 
the High Priest and said to her, “ Lady, I know you are 
sad, can I do anything to relieve you.” Anna was startled, not 
by the title of lady, but by the fact that she was recognized ; 
and this by one, who was a total stranger to her. That she 
was known was certain ; something in the tone of the slave 
told it plainly. What good would a denial do ? Why show 
any contempt for this slave, who was now legally her equal. 
She quelled the sentiment of Scorn, therefore, and saw in the 
dusky maid beside her, a fellow creature with a woman’s heart, 
as well as a woman’s intuition. “ How do you know me 1 ” 
were her first words addressed to the Indian. “ I often saw 
you in the city,” replied the slave with a smile, “ and I know 
•who you are, I know how you have been suffering ; but many 
others too have had their afflictions, sorne less, some more ; 
and the Lord, who sees your woes, will relieve them if you 


ZIONS DAUGHTER A SLAVE. 


119 


trust fully in Him. The bitter wind robs the trees of their 
clothing in the fall, but sweet spring avenges the wrong, com- 
pletely replacing the old garments by others, newer and more 
beautiful.” Perhaps Anna would have resented this homily 
from a poor slave, if it had been delivered in any other tone, 
or in less figurative language than that employed by Zelta ; 
but there was an eloquence in the expression, and a depth of 
conviction in the tone, such as she had never heard since she 
parted from Irene. Besides, the slave used the word “ Lord,” 
where she herself would have used “ God,” a peculiarity which 
prompted her to ask, “ Of what country are you 1 You are not 
an Israelite.” The woman answered by giving a short history 
of her life. “ I am not a Jew,” she continued, “ and yet I a‘m 
not a believer in my country’s gods. I believe in a God who 
is just and merciful, and who will one day take away suffering 
and punish wrong-doers." Anna was silent ; this was very 
much like the Christian belief, as taught her by Irene. Bub 
how could Zelta be a Christian 1 However, the conversation 
had diverted her thoughts, and relaxed the strain which had 
become almost unendurable. She would most willingly have 
continued the conversation, if she had not been interrupted 
abruptly, and brutally, by the sailors, whose duty it was to 
prepare for the landing. The harbor of Alexandria, though 
very large within, was not approachable at all in rough wea- 
ther, and only with great caution, even on the calmest day. 
The channel approaching it was narrow and crooked, and girded 
by sunken and concealed rocks ; on the left was an immense 
breakwater, and on the right numerous piers built all about 
the island of Pharos. In their haste to get ready their haw- 
sers and gang-planks for the landing, the seamen crowded and 
hustled the slaves about, not merely putting them out of their 
way, but striking them with ropes, or oars, or marlines, just as 
the fancy seized them. Zelta was struck by one of these brutes 
and thrown down on the deck, and then kicked by another, 
while Anna was pushed along into a crowd of slaves, who only 
laughed at her chagrin, so accustomed were they to receive 
abuse, or see it inflicted on others. It is no part of our story 
to describe the landing of the passengers, and the conveyance 
of them from the wharf to the upper part of the city, into a 
great square, where those who needed slaves were accustomed 


120 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


to -buy them from speculators, engaged in the business of fur- 
nishing them for the markets. 

Passing over the interval of some days then, we shall dis- 
fcover Anna settled down in a life of drudgery, — the lot of 
female slaves — in the suburbs of the great Egyptian city. Here* 
her master lived in opulence, whenever his business allowed 
him a period of rest and pleasure, in the bosom of his family. 
He was a man of some education, with a taste for sculpture, 
painting and music, strictly honest ‘in his business relations, 
hospitable to his friends, and kind and atfable to his slaves, 
even those engaged in the most menial services. The grounds 
round about his elegant mansion were laid out in the most 
artistic manner ; sweet-scented-flowers of variegated hues min- 
gled their odors with those of orange and olive ; and hedges of 
quickset and briar flanked the broad and level paths, which 
meandered in every direction, and converged to a central foun- 
tain. This fountain was of bronze, and the figure from whose 
mouth the limpid water issued was none other than the famous 
Sphinx. In imitation bf the splendor of Babylon and of 
Memphis, small hanging gardens, which, by-the-bye in our day, 
have dwindled into ba«kets, swayed with a gentle motion, in 
obedience to the pressure of a prevailing west wind. On top 
of the house was an aquarium or artificial lake, in which tiny 
fish glided to imaginary depths, or reposed in miniature caves 
and sea weed. The family consisted of one son and three 
daughters, whose ages ranged from twelve to twenty. Twenty 
slaves were constantly engaged about the house and grounds, 
and as many more attended to the business of their master 
in the city, or at the quays j Nilos was, in fact, the richest 
merchant of Alexandria. 



CHAPTER XII. 

IN THE sibyl’s CAVE. 

“ At mom the black cock trims his jetty wing, 

’Tis morning prompts the linnet’s blithest lay ; 

All nature’s children feel the matin spring 
Of life reviving with reviving day.” 

— Lady of the Lake, Canto ii. 

S HE reader who has taken an interest in Irene must have 
saddened at the fate which seemed to have befallen her. 
But our heroine is not yet dead. At the fearful moment 
when she sank, exhausted and unconscious, a hand was near to 
rescue her — at least from drowning. Her vessel had been driven 
northward around Sicily before foundering ; and Irene was 
therefore some distance from the island of Lipari (so famed for 
its beautiful marbles) when she was descried by one of the pirati- 
cal craft which plied about the coasts of Southern Italy and Sicily 
and between the numerous small isles of the. Mediterranean, 
looking out for chance shipwrecks, whose unfortunate victims 
became objects of their heartless plunder. The crews of such 
vessels were of course outlaws, and as a rule neither expected 
nor gave quarter. They generally attacked small ships, over- 
powered and murdered the crew, and burned the c'aptured ves- 
sel, in order to destroy every trace of their crime. Forgetting 
for the time his usual barbarity, or hoping, perhaps, that the 
find would give a clue to a more successful discovery, the 
master of the boat paused in his course, and picked up the 
drowning female. As soon as she had somewhat tevived she 
was asked her name, and that of the ship in which she had 
sailed ; but she was still too confused to answer those ques- 
tions properly. Her beauty, however, and the richness of her 
attire led her captors to believrfthat she was a prize worth re- 
H 


122 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


taining ; sagaciously reasoning that a large ransom would be 
paid them for her release.' How grievously they miscalculated 
the reader knows well ; but even the shrewdest freebooters are 
often taken in, employing their greatest resources where -the 
return will be most meagre. 

The pirates meanwhile picked up several barrels of fine oil 
from the neighborhood of the wreck, but not finding anything 
more profitable — many boxes of ruined spices floated about — 
they returned to their home at Cumae, where they landed and de- 
livered the lady into the hands of their confederates. For seve- 
ral days Irene remained in a semi-conscious state ; and her pro- 
gress towards the full recovery of her faculties was gradual, and 
exceedingly painful. At first she thought that she was still 
in the water, clinging to a spar, Vhich to her great dismay 
kept constantly rolling about. Then she seemed to be forced 
in some way to remain awake, though she needed sleep and rest. 
Again she was in a ship — she could feel its rocking motion — and 
hear the water splashing, and the reality of the shipwreck horror 
became doubtful ; it was all a dream ; she could not have gone 
through such an ordeal. Then the thought that it was a dream 
became a conviction ; for were not the beams of the ship’s deck 
there above her head ? But these beams seemed of a peculiar 
kind, and unlike the deck beams of a ship — what were they 1 
Not wood, they were stone ; yes, they were stone ; and every- 
thing about her was stone, and suddenly she perceived that she 
was in a rocky cave not in a ship. She was safe then, and 
the shipwreck was a reality. She was now fully conscious : 
she heard voices — the voices of men speaking in an under- 
tone, while hard by, curiously watching her, in the softened 
light, was, a little girl of apparently some eight or nine sum- 
mers. What new mystery was this? Perhaps she was in 
some peasant’s or fisherman’s dwelling, and this girl was 
one of the children. Many fancies passed through her brain, 
many guesses, but none near the truth. She lay a while with- 
out the will to rise ; then making an effort, she succeeded 
in gaining a sitting posture; but something prevented her 
moving her feet. She looked down and behold ! she was 
shackled, chained to her bed. The true situation now parti- 
ally flashed upon her ; she was a captive, but why or where 
she knew not. “ Again a prisoner ! ” she sighed, and shuddered 


IN THE sibyl’s CAVE. 


123 


at the possibility of being once more in Simon’s power. Shame, 
indignation, and terror struggled for the mastery within her ; 
but she rose superior to her fears, and asked the child — the 
men’s voices had ceased — where she was, and who were her 
captors. The child shrank away with a scared look when ad- 
dressed, and a thickset, villainous-looking man* came up from 
somewhere behind her, and patting her familiarly on the cheek, 
an action she instantly resented, exclaimed, “ Well, pretty one, 
we have been a long time waiting for a word from you ; but do 
not be so waspish. How shall we call you ? Where did you 
sail from ] You are a Greek at any rate, a Diana, I suppose, 
aye, pretty maiden 1 ” In spite of his looks, and his gruff 
voice this man did not frighten Irene ; so she replied with in- 
trepidity, “ let me know my position, sir, before you take the 
liberty of asking so many questions.- I would like to be able 
to thank my deliverers, but — this treatment is worse than 
death.” The man looked at her for a moment with an amused 
expression, and then taking a key from his pocket, unlocked the 
chain which held her. He then told her in a few words, that 
she was held for a ransom by the people {i. e. robbers) of CumaB 
“The pirates who found you in the sea,” said he, “gave you 
into our charge, and we have nursed you carefully, hoping to 
know where you came from, so that we might all profit by your 
recovery ; for you are very wealthy, and we are very poor.” 
And as he pronounced the last word, in a drawling tone, he 
laughed a loud guffaw ; winked at his comrades, who gathered 
about her to look at the girl ; now fully revived. The search- 
ing glances of the robbers as they crowded around her, and the 
intelligence that she was to be forced to keep such company 
indefinitely, drove Irene almost frantic. She so far forgot her- 
self, as to wish she had been left to perish in the deep. She 
had escaped from the hands of Simon, only to be held as a host- 
age by men as vile as he, and more powerful, if possible, to 
do her barm. How her modesty recoiled from the rude gazes of 
these ruffians ! How her cheeks burned, and the hot tears shot 
to her eyes, and rained fast down her pale cheeks, and upon 
her clasped hands, as she bent under the utter hopelessness of 
the situation. Yet in that hour of sadness, she was not with- 
out friends. Through the cloud of her tears burst a ray of 
divine consolation, which calmed her and saved her reason 


124 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


from yielding to the strain. The image of her Lord dying, 
with none about save his enemies, came vividly before her, and 
with it a feeling of resignation, that no merely natural reflec- 
tion could produce. In another minute her tears were dried 
up ; the robbery had gone out, and she was alone with the little 
girl, on whose innocent face the eyes of her returning consci- 
ousness had previously rested. Had these meh’s hearts softened 
at the sight of unmerited sufiering, or was it a special grace from 
God, in favor of Irene, which inspired them with a sense of 
shame, and drove them for a time from the presence of the in- 
jured girl 1 Whichever was true, it was certainly providential. 
The child seemed now to be less afraid, and after a considerable 
time, spoke to Irene ih a language which she could not under- 
stand ; but which, by means of gestures, conveyed the intelli- 
gence, that she too was a prisoner, and desirous of escaping. 
She advanced to wards the mouth of the cave, and, after looking 
cautiously about, beckoned to Irene to follow. The latter 
arose from her hard bed of leaves and rushes, and though very 
feeble, managed to advance to the low arched opening, and 
look out upon the sea, whence she had been so lately rescued. 
The robbers were at a considerable distance repairing their 
boats, or making preparations for another cruise. Irene took 
advantage of her comparative solitude to enjoy a bath in the 
cool and clear water, and afterwards to repose in the glorious 
sunshine. The little girl brought her some fruit, of which she 
partook heartily, the child talking all the time in the unknown 
tongue. What language was she speaking 1 Irene was sure 
she had heard it spoken before. What a pity she could not 
understand the child 3 she could only kiss and caress her, and 
engage in imaginary conversation with her, by means of such 
signs as she thought would best indicate her meaning. But 
how vague, after all, is a language of signs. Two adults, or 
two children, might have got along better than a grown per- 
son and a child j and still, how many a shade of thought, 
how many emotions would the pantomime fail to convey ! 
Nevertheless, the child was a source of some comfort in the 
midst of so many afflictions : she was innocent and pretty ; 
and the ease with which she bore her little sorrows, caused 
Irene to think less gloomily of her own. “ There is that in- 
fant,” she said to herself, “ crying piteously one moment, when 


IN THE sibyl’s cave. 


125 


she thinks of her home, and following a butterfly with spotted 
yellow wings ; the next, laughing and clapping her little hands 
when that larger surf overtakes her. She would die shortly 
if God would deprive her of that levity, .which hinders her 
brooding over the loss of her freedom. Why should I, then, 
do with myself, what nature keeps her from doing ? Why 
should I repine ?” So she fell to contriving the best means of 
escaping from her awkward position. But the robbers knew 
that escape was impossible ; else, why did they unfetter her ? 
She might stray along the rocky coast, and hide in a remote 
cranny, but to what purpose ? They knew the coast as well as 
she did the streets in her native city ; consequently she would 
be easily and quickly discovered, or she would starve, or be- 
come food for the serpents, which made their home in the 
crevasses of the rocks. To clamber up their precipitous sides, 
and gain the woods away up from the coast, would be impossible 
for any one so weak as she was then, even if one of the party 
were not on the lookout to ruin the success of such an attempt. 
Thus she thought on, as she sat there on the sands, and 
watched the sea birds skimming the placid waters, bathing 
their pinions in the sunlight, or their bgdies in the sea. 

As the sun sank in the cloudless western sky, and fringed 
the forest in the distance with a border of golden hue, the rob- 
bers, of some of them, began to return towards their cave. 
Irene also thought it best to enter, and as far as possible give 
no occasion to her captors for resorting to cruel treatment. 
When she turned round, she was surprised at being unable to 
discover the mouth of the cavern. Stunted trees and sea weed 
covered the grey or brown rocks as far as she could see, up and 
down the coast. Deep rifts there were in the bold face 
of those rocks, and long narrow chasms in many places, in 
their almost perpendicular surface ; but nothing resembling 
a cave. The cave was there nevertheless ; and she found it 
guided by the little girl, who grew hourly fonder of the stran- 
ger ; and spent most of her time near her, prattling to her, 
looking wistfully into her eyes, or showing the pfetty stones 
she now and then discovered on the beach. The child thought 
it natural that her abductors, gruff, wicked men, could not 
speak her tongue ; but that a beautiful lady could be igno- 
rant of it, puzzled her. That was a mystery — perhaps the 


12G 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


first she encountered. A large dome-shaped boulder poised on 
two smaller stones, and jutting out beyond the general mass, 
at a height of ten or fifteen feet from the water level, hid the 
entrance to the cave from the view of those sailing or walking 
along the shore. It was only when one scaled the natural 
rampart, to the level of the boulder, that it was possible to find 
the arched opening. Sad, yet refreshed, Irene entered ; and 
as the little girl began to build a fire, offered her some assist- 
ance. She now saw that the cave was long and very wide, 
with openings here and there, overhead, one of which answered 
the purpose of a chimney. This discovery made Irene form 
a plan of escape. A rope, a dark night, a little sleep on the 
part of the guards, and all would be easily managed. But the 
more she thought over this plan, the less feasible it seemed : 
and at last, she reluctantly abandoned it for another. This was 
to wander about, going daily farther and farther from the cave, 
but returning promptly, until she became acquainted with the 
locality ; then to escape to the woods, when the vigilance of 
the guard weakened, and trust to Providence for rescue. She 
prayed earnestly for success, and waited her deliverance with 
confidence. 

The robbers had now reached the cave ; but of those who 
went out in the morning only about half returned. They 
seemed pleksed at Irene’s conduct, as they did not offer her 
violence or insult, nor even put her any questions. When 
they had eaten heartily of roast boar’s flesh, they set about 
playing dice,' and drinking heavily. The leader alone drank 
little, and remained sober j while the others became wild over 
their cups. One young man among them who appeared to be less 
than twenty years old, tninking himself unfairly dealt with, 
abandoned the game ; and with uncertain steps advanced to- 
wards the captive. She eluded him, however, and started off 
in the direction of the entry, where she found a man, armed 
with a long sword keeping guard. At this moment the leader 
or captain of the gang spoke up, and forbade the boyish liber- 
tine to interfere in any way with the young woman. He 
obeyed sulkily, and sat down ; then asked why she was so 
very sacred altogether. The captam explained that if they 
wished to get a good ransom for her she must be restored un- 
injured. The explanation, made in a dialect unintelligible to 


IN THE sibyl’s CAVE. 


127 


Irene, quieted somewhat the man to whom it was made, so that 
he straightway went sullenly out of the cave, to the great relief 
of our heroine. She thanked the captain for his kindness, and 
in reply to his questions — for he at once entered into a conversa- 
tion — imparted to him as much of her history as she thought 
it safe to disclose. Though rough in his exterior, the captain 
was by no means insensible to female charms ; and Irene fam 
cied he was using unnecessary condescension, if he meant to 
be only polite. He drew his bench nearer to her, and motion- 
ing to her to be seated, conversed freely about his past life ; 
and furnished, with some solemnity, the information that he 
was a descendant of Pompey, the famous Eoman general. 
“ How then did you come to enter upon such a life as this 1 ” 
said Irene, who was frightened at her own boldness in express- 
ing the implied reproach. He felt the blow, and a flush of anger 
passed over his cheek. For some minutes, however, he remained 
silent, looking down thoughtfully at his sword-hilt on which he 
beat a tattoo with his fingers ; then, without raising his eyes, re- 
plied, “ One hundred and forty years ago, the pirates who pos- 
sessed thousands of ships, and swept the seas from the far-off coast 
of Sidon, to the pillars of Hercules, had become a source of ter- 
ror even to the stout heart of Rome. Its merchantmen were 
seized, the supplies of corn cut off, and its coast [cities often 
pillaged and sacked. Pompey, whose wonderful feats of 
arms had fitted him for the accomplishment of any great under- 
taking, was given a three years’ lease of power to exterminate 
the pirates. He set about the mighty task as only he knew 
how. He divided his forces, and placed his fleets under able 
lieutenants ; and assuming in person the chief command, he 
defeated the most powerful enemy the Romans ever faced — 
yes, annihilated them in three short months. How did the 
Romans repay this man t How did they reward his victories ? 
They took to their bosoms his cruel foe — ^hat man Caesar — 
and banished the descendants of a hero from the soil of Italy. 
I was but a child when I was told this history by my father, 
at the fireside of our poor home in Crete ; yet the blood of 
the hero stirred within me, and I swore that I would be ever 
an enemy to Rome. My father tried to calm me, but I ran 
away from home, and became a sailor. Then it came to my 
mind that the best way to punish un ungrateful senate and 


128 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


people, would be to reorganize a piratical association, which it 
would require another Pompey to break up. How they would 
then wish they had treated my ancestor as he deserveil ! How 
they would begin to see what he was worth, now that he could 
not be replaced ! Although the spirit oF piracy was broken, I 
found a few who willingly joined me in the formation of a 
band, which soon numbered fifty daring men. We cannot do 
much harm it is true ; but our existence reminds the ungrate- 
ful Romans of the services once rendered by their unrequited 
general.” When the pirate had finished speaking, he per- 
ceived that his audience was asleep. One by one the bandits 
or pirates — such as they were — had fallen from the gambling 
table and lay in drunken stupor, on the floor. Irene too, not- 
nothstanding her strenuous efforts to remain awake and appear 
an attentive listener, was overcome, and yielded unconsciously 
to Nature’s great restorer. When she awoke it was dawn ; 
the air was thick and heavy, and the cave resounded with 
the heavy breathing of the sleeping robbers. She glanced 
about rapidly, and seeing that no one was stirring a,broad, 
ventured out into the open air. A light gray mist lay upon 
the water, which lapped, with a steady but gentle motion, the 
patches of sandy beach, here and there appearing, beyond and 
between the volcanic rocks of the coast. The only sounds that 
struck her ear were a faint gurgling near by and below where 
the stood, caused by the ebbing of the wavelets in and out of a 
narrow gorge ; and the long steady swish of the untiring surf, 
rolling along and breaking on miles and miles of coast. Sud- 
only a single note sounded in the distance ; then another 
followed, and another as the dew-winged larks welcomed the 
approach of day. From every bush and covert, 'other song- 
sters fell into line ; some in high keys shrilly sounding, some 
in a lower and softer diapason, till the grand concert of fea- 
thered musicians was complete, and the forests on the distant 
peninsula trembled with liquid harmony that resembled the 
sacred strains of some celestial choir. Then the gray mist 
began to blush, as if ashamed of its dissonance with its sur- 
roundings, and in an instant the sea and sky were a blaze of 
fire. The sun had pierced the horizon, and a cloudless sky 
welcomed the majesty of day. Irene’s poetic soul was raised 
up by the gorgeous sight to a contemplation of the Hea- 


IN THE sibyl’s CAVE. 


129 


venly Jerusalem, where th? Lamb is Uie lamp, and there is no 
further need of sun or moon ; and she sighed for the joys of that 
happy home— joys to be purchased only by passing through a 
life of pain and sorrow. Poor child, she had already had more 
than an ordinary share of both ; but, thanks to her faith, she 
turned them to advantage, hoping on for the better things to 
come. She was so completely lost in admiration of the vision 
now before her, that she forgot what had been uppermost in her 
thoughts, such a short time ago. However, after awhile, she 
recollected that great things were yet to be done, and that she 
was losing valuable time. 

Nowhere was the captain of the brigands to be seen, nor of 
the young man, who alone had offered her any violence. The 
occasion seemed propitious, and she at once made up her mind 
to escape, if possible. She began straightway therefore to re- 
connoitre, and'cautiously to examine and survey the approaches 
to the cave, from the north and west. 

After climbing a considerable distance over large masses of 
rock, she was able to trace a distinct path, through a gorge, 
which led upward in the direction she wished to take. The 
walls of this defile, which widened as they advanced, were 
thickly festooned with shrubs of various sizes, which grew high 
up in the clefts of the rock. Perhaps they sprang from seeds 
wafted thither from across the sea, and deposited in a chink 
where a few grains of soil had also been carried by the land- 
breezes, and were watered by the little streams, that oozed 
through tiny fissures, and trickled down upon the leafy path 
below. Upward the path coursed, growing more circuitous 
and narrow as it went, till at last 'it merged into a sort of tun- 
nel, which turned abruptly to the left, and shut out every ray 
of the sun. Irene had entered this tunnel before she was aware 
of it, so eager had she become in her pursuit of liberty ; but 
no sooner had she advanced to the turn, than the pitchy dark- 
ness caused her to pause and consider what was next to be 
done. To advance might be dangerous, for she knew not 
whither she might be led. To go back might be fraught with 
danger, for she now recollected that she had been more than 
three hours absent from the cave. Just as she was in this 
quandary a startling incident occurred. Quite near her an owl 
fluttered his wings, and uttered that peculiar dismal cry which 


130 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


is said to have often caused the bravest men to shudder. For- 
tunately Irene was accustomed to sudden alarms, and past a 
momentary fear, she was not much disturbed. But she heard 
a second sound, not the hooting of an owl, nor the voice of any 
beast, but the voices of men. At first it sounded below, then 
above her. Then it grew more and more distinct, until at last. 
Oh horror ! she e'fecognized the voice of the captain of the rob- 
bers and that of the youth who had insulted her. She was 
certain that they had missed her ; and she sank down upon 
the path, and groped about convulsively for some support. 
“ They are not far off,” said the young man to his companion ; 
but Irene heard only the words, “ hot far off,” and thought 
they referred to herself. She found that the wall to the right 
was indented, and she moved noiselessly into the niche or rather 
cavity, where she thought she might escape notice, for she knew 
that the parties were approaching. “ But yesterday, said the 
captain, “ the party left a kid not far from the turn ; we shall 
find her hereabout.” They were within a few feet of Irene’s 
hiding place, and that the words, “ find her here,” meant her- 
self she was quite sure. It was therefore just what she ex- 
pected, when one of the men began groping in front of her, and, 
with the words, “ here she is,” seized something that lay on the 
rock just at her feet. Had Irene been standing she would 
have fallen, and probably screamed ; but she was in a semi-re- 
cumbent posture, and consequently only dropped forwards 
little, and without a sound. Providentially her voice seemed 
paralysed or frozen, and the men passed on without the least 
suspicion that their escaped prisoner was within an arm’s 
length of recapture. In* an instant she understood the situa- 
tion, but it was several ininutes before she was able to rise and 
continue her journey through the unknown cave. She knew 
that the path had an exit somewhere ; she also knew that it 
would now be several hours before she would be missed, and con- 
sequently that her chances of escape were increasing with the 
flight of every moment of time. 

It seemed to her probable, too, now that she knew she had 
not been the subject of the robbers’ conversation, that some 
enemy was in pursuit of them. The tones of their voices be- 
trayed an uneasiness which would not have been manifest if 
the persons who were said to be “not far off,” were friends. 


131 


IN THE sibyl’s CAVE. 

Between hope, then, and fear, ever and anon directing a prayer 
for divine aid she glided along through the meandering pas- 
sage, which turned now to the right, now to the left, gradually 
ascending, and grew narrower as it approached its term. At 
last after an arduous, discouraging half-hour’s walk, a faint 
glimmer of light directly ahead revived the maiden’s spirits. 
It grew rapidly brighter as she advanced, and at last betrayed 
the aperture where the tunnel struggling through a mass of ibli- 
age reached the surface of the earth. With a bounding heart 
Irene approached this barrier, and pulling aside the brambles 
stepped out upon the bank of a little stream with whose waters 
the dense weeping willows mingled their verdant tears. She 
waded across the brook, and immediately knelt down upon 
its mossy bank to offer the prayer of a grateful heart to her 
God. 

J oyful were the tears she shed, as with folded arms and hair 
floating in the balmy morning breeze, she looked about on the 
charming landscape, and felt that once more she was free. Gaz- 
ing leisurely about her, her eyes wandered back across the 
little stream ; but although she searched the bank, right and 
left, she could discover no trace of the secret opening to the 
robbers’ cave of Cum£e. Looking then toward the sun, in order 
to guide herself properly, she started off in a north-westerly 
direction towards Kome, which she knew could not be distant 
more than a hundred miles. 



CHAPTER XIII. 

A ROMAN TRIUMPU. 

C>o 

* T had been the custom of centuries to give every famous 
conqueror what was called a triumph, or public recognition 
of the valuable services rendered to the state by his mili- 
tary genius. Hence the greatest honor to which a Roman citi- 
zen, down to the days of the Emperors, could aspire, was a tri- 
umph. We have already learned how Simon, the cruel tyrant 
of Jerusalem, was captured and kept chained against the day 
when Titus would exhibit him in Rome, at the triumph which 
he longed to celebrate in the capital of the world. In the days 
of the republia it was necessary to have the sanction of the 
Senate to hold a triumph ; and as a preliminary, the victorious 
general was obliged to wait at the gates of the city, for the per- 
mission of the Conscript Fathers, to whom he offered his army 
in token of submission to the commonwealth. These ceremonies 
were, as a matter of course, dispensed with when the Emperors 
usurped the right to hold such displays. 

• The triumph was usually celebrated in the following manner : 
Arrayed in triumphal robes, and bearing in his hand a branch 
of laurel, the triumpher first distributed prizes of money and 
valuables among his soldiers. Then, preceded by musicians, 
and by the vanquished kings or generals, and other captives, 
the victor was drawn in a richly adorned chariot by white 
horses, and followed by his army, shouting songs of victory and 
praise. In his left hand he held an ivory sceptre and a golden 
eagle, and the route lay between the Campus Martius, or Field 
of Mars, tto the Capitol, where the victims for sacrifice were 
slain. After a feast, which was open to all, he was accompanied 
to his home by crowds of his admiring fellow citizens. 


A ROMAN TRIUMPH. 


133 


Titus had been^associated by his father, the reigning empe- 
ror, to the dignity of Ctesar ; therefore his triumph would be 
celebrated conjointly by father and son, and accordingly Ves- 
pasian decided to make it exceed in magnificence anything in 
the memory of living men. We may here remark that no two 
rulers ever deserved better to be honored by the Roman peo- 
ple. Vespasian was of humble parentage and rose by his own 
exertions to the purple. As a general, during the reign of 
Claudius, he gained thirty battles in Britain, thus opening up 
that little-known island, and completely subduing it beneath 
the Roman power. In Gaul he was also eminently successful ; 
and as soon as intelligence was received of the disastrous out- 
breaks in Judea he was sent there by Nero, as the only man 
on whose valor and skill the nation could rely to quell them. 
The event justified the confidence reposed in him. He set out 
at once for Syria, after receiving his commission, and thence 
for Palestine where he took, in rapid succession, Jotapata, 
Joppa, Tiberias, Gadara, and several other strongly fortified 
towns or cities. Having thus reduced the country he made 
preparations for the siege of Jerusalem, but had hardly entered 
on the work when Nero was dethroned. After the death of 
that monster, Galla, Otho, and Vitellius, three emperors each 
as bad as Nero, were created and assassinated, one after another, 
within a period of a few months. The commonwealth was in 
great danger, and the legions, who execiated the very name of 
V^itellius, offered the purple to the victorious Vespasian. Fur- 
ther, they threatened his refusal of the honor with death ; and 
their choice was ratified by the Governor of Egypt and by the 
armies in Mysia and Pannonia. Leaving his son to prosecute 
the siege of Jerusalem, he hastened to Rome, and was received 
with acclamations of joy by a people who quickly invented for 
him a genealogy and a descent from the gods. Equal justice for 
all, and peace for the Christians characterized his short reign ; 
and his frugality and economy in an age of extravagance put 
to shame the uproarious conviviality of the rich and intemperate. 
The military exploits of the son redounded to the glory of a 
father, who was as successful in the cabinet as he had been in 
the field ; and the people were animated with but one soul, as 
it were, to honor both in the coming triumph. 


134 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


Titus having disposed of his troops in the East set out for 
Eome by way of Alexandria, crossing the great sandy desert 
over which the Israelites, sixteen hundred years previously, 
had wandered during forty years after their departure from 
Egypt. He embarked from the great port which was described 
in a former chapter, in a trireme or boat having three rows of 
oars, one placed above the other, and reached the port of Ostia 
in a remarkably short time. Among the few soldiers whom he 
brought with him as a body-guard, was Julius of the 10th 
legion, whose bravery and special fidelity had distinguished 
him during the siege. Simon was brought, heavily ironed, in 
another vessel, with a number of slaves and an immense assort- 
ment of valuable articles taken from the ruins of Jerusalem. 
On his way to the city Titus was met by deputations from the 
various civic and political associations, who presented him with 
flattering addresses ; and at the gates by his father and his 
brother Domitian, afterwards Emperor. The Senate, which 
had only a semblance of power, decreed two triumphs — one to 
Vespasian and a second to his son ; but they were satisfied 
with one great festival. T^e night before the celebration, the 
city may be said to have remained awake, for the preparations 
were on so grand a scale that the time was almost too short to 
complete them. Soldiers were polishing their armor, and citi- 
zens were preparing their best apparel for the rare occasion. 
Favorable points of view in stores or houses were sold, as now 
a days, and young men and young women looked forward to 
the opportunity of meeting one another, and exhibiting their 
good looks or their newest garments. Thieves, too, were pre- 
paring to ply a busy trade, and mountebanks and charlatans of 
all kinds to reap a harvest at the expense of heedless or curious 
sight-seers. 

At length the day was come. The Senators and members of 
the Equestrian Order met the Emperors at the Walks of Octa- 
vian, where Vespasian and Titus appeared, arrayed in purple 
and crowned with laurel wreaths. From early dawn scores of 
thousands of citizens of all ages and sexes had streamed into 
the streets and filled up the various squares, and climbed into 
windows and doorways, upon porches and pillars, and crowded 
the walks and roadways, barely leaving room for the proces- 
sion, which they wedged in on both sides, to pass slowly along 


A ROMAN TRIUMPH. 


135 


between them. At the sight of the Emperors a shout arose 
from the nearest beholders, which was taken up and repeated 
by miles of human voices till the sound resembled, in its undu- 
lating cadence and massive volume, the mutterings of distant 
thunder, or the roaring of the sea. After this hearty reception 
Vespasian gave the signal for silence, which was so well and 
and so quickly obeyed, that the trickling of the water in the 
adjacent fountains could be distinctly heard. Then the Empe- 
rors, each in turn, offered up prayers of thanksgiving to the 
pagan deities, and afterwards addressed the people in speeches 
appropriate for the occasion. The procession then began to 
move towards the Gate of Triumph, where sacrifices were offered 
to the false gods, and some food was partaken of by the Empe- 
rors and by the troops. All along the line immense structures 
like platforms, of two, three or four stories, were borne by 
slaves, of whom a vast number were chosen for this purpose. 
On these platforms, on the highest part of which was seated a 
general, or a prominent citizen, or a prince of some captured 
city, all kinds of embroidery, richly wrought curtains, and 
silk and purple stuffs of rarest material and design, were placed, 
as well to exhibit the wealth of the countries whence these 
things were taken, as to conceal the rudeness of the wooden 
framework. Exposed to full view, were also on every story 
or floor, a number of captives, richly clad, and about them, 
now in confused heaps, now in careful arrangement, but always 
in profusion, quantities of spices, of silver, of gold and of ivory. 
Some platforms were devoted to military, and others to civic 
display, consequently each had a distinct and special character. 
Paintings and sculpture, articles 'of domestic use, ornaments 
made of the precious metals, garments, household furniture, 
with sacred images of the gods of Eastern countries were 
placed on some ; while on others military weapons and 
engines, swords and darts, banners, trumpets and battering- 
rams were conspicuously stacked. Some again were occupied 
by rare or beautiful animals ; but others (and these were most 
instructive of all) contained representations, partly by means 
of paintings, and partly by living tableaux or theatrical per- 
formance, of the events of the late war. Beautiful countries 
could be seen ruined by the scourges of fire and famine, the 
usual attendants or consequences of war. Then the battles 


136 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


were presented and the corpses of the enemy exposed to view. 
Mighty walls and battlements would then appear which civili- 
ans would regard as impregnable, and almost immediately they 
would crumble down and be reduced to ruins by the action of 
rams and other military engines. Then a burning city would 
be portrayed, with its elegant mansions given over to the 
flames, its treasures plundered, and its citizens massacred or 
led into captivity. How sad for the captive Jews this exhibi- 
tion of their misfortunes to pagali eyes, and -how crushing for 
hearts that were widowed, or bereft of darling children, or 
kind brothers or sisters, to be compelled not alone to be stung 
by the bitter recollection of their unspeakable grief, but to re- 
late and sing the story of their fall to an enemy who understood 
not their language, and could not therefore be moved to com- 
passion by the tale. Well might they recollect the sorrows of 
their forefathers, who were carried away into Babylonian cap- 
tivity, and sing in the abyss of their grief : 

“We sate down and wept, by the waters. 

Of Babel and thought of the day, 

When our foe in the hue of his slaughters, 

Made Salem’s high places his prey ; 

And ye, 0 her desolate daughters ! 

Were scattered all weeping away.” 

On one special platform were borne the spoils of the Jiemple ; 
a table of solid gold, the golden candlestick, with its seven 
lamps, made after the plan given by the Almighty to Moses, 
so many centuries before ; and lastly, the copies of the Law of 
the Jews. 

Chief among the captives was, of course, Simon, in whom' 
was centered the liveliest interest. As he was dragged along, 
nearly naked, with a rope around his neck, his huge frame 
attracted attention, while his wild and savage look, and his 
rolling and fiery eyes struck fear to the hearts of his enemies. 
Blows were rained on him from all sides, and so frequently, 
that he may be said to have been more dead than alive when 
he reached the place of execution. Only once did he betray 
emotion, by speech. It was near the foot of the Capitoline 
Hill, and just as they passed a brazen statue of Hercules, that 
he caught a glimpse of a face, that brought back to his memory a 


A ROMAN TRIUMPH. 


137 


lost opportunity of wreaking his vengeance on a victim. It was 
for a moment only ; but that moment sufficed to give him the 
most poignant suffering, in comparison with which his sub- 
sequent decapitation was a trifle. When he saw the face he was 
bent half over, striving to ease the tension of the rope which 
bound him ; but in an instant his form became erect, and he 
seemed to grow to twice his real size. He raised a wild yell of 
fury, and struck out with his hands which were bound together, 
at the person he had descried in the crowd. Such was the 
force of his efforts, that he dragged his jailers backwards, and 
threw one of them to the ground. Another moment, and he 
was pounced upon and bound more firmly by the soldiers, and 
driven forward with more violence than before. When he 
made the attempt to strike the person he had recognized, it 
was thought by those about to be a foolish attempt at escape ; 
but one man at least knew the real cause ; for when his atten- 
tion was drawn by the cry, to the action of Simon, Julius, who 
was near by, and directly before the Emperor’s car, saw that 
face too, and with no less powerful emotion. A film seemed 
to pass over his eyes, such as one experiences when he suddenly 
gazes on a very brilliant light. A cry escaped him also, but it 
was unheard amid the din ; and even if he had so far forgotten 
the stern discipline which bound him to his post, as to attempt 
to move towards the object which so strangely excited him, the 
dense crowd would have impeded his progress. However, he 
looked long and steadily over his shoulder, as he was pressed 
forward, but that face, the countenance of Irene had disap- 
peared. Had she seen him 1 Would she recognize him ? 
Would she still believe him dead 1 Did she still cherish his 
memory] How, or when, or why did she come to Rome? 
These and a thousand other questions appealed in vain for an 
answer. He thought her countenance was sad, and bore the 
same marks of suffering as when he found her in the trenches 
before Jerusalem. His heart beat violently, and thumped 
against his breast, as if urging him on to some fearful deed ; 
his mind was full of wild schemes ; and during the remainder 
of the day, his imagination waded through a sea of troubles 
and difficulties, and grasped and clung fondly to every possi- 
bility his fancy pictured of finding his beloved. That it was 
she, he was convinced, as there could not be another (so he be- 
I 


138 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


lieved) such lovely countenance among the daughters of men : 
and its image was graven on his heart of hearts. Besides, he 
knew that Simon hated her ; she had told him of the tyrant’s 
cruelty and hate. What else but a desire to kill her, because 
she had thwarted his designs, could have so roused him at that 
place, and at that particular moment ? But another proof was 
added to these, as we shall see farther on. When the proces- 
sion reached that part of the Capitoline where the temple of 
Jupiter stood, a halt was called, and the executioners of Simon, 
the son of Gioras, were despatched to the Forum, there to put 
the captive to death. They performed their task, and returned 
to report the fact, as custom had it, to the Emperors. There- 
upon other sacrifices were offered up, and the crowds dispersed, 
the civilians to their homes, and the military to their camp. 
Thus ended the great event, to commemorate which, the mag- 
nificent arch of Titus was erected. It remains standing to this 
day, an undying monument to him whose name it bears, and 
one of the few great treasures which have outlived, in a city of 
ruins, the rage of the barbarian and the envious stroke of time. 
Passing strange it may seem, too, that the monument, which 
marks the dispersion of the Jewish people, should alone, of all 
the great works of that age, escape unscathed. Another fact 
in this connection deserves our notice. When Vespasian gave 
orders to dispose of the treasures of the Jewish Temple, he 
took particular care that the Laws of Moses should be placed, 
not in a pagan temple, but in the Imperial palace for safe-keep- 
ing. Is there not something suggestive in this act of a Pagan 
Prince 1 



CHAPTER XIV. 

AN APOSTOLIC ADVICE. 

< 2 ^ 

* T was a week since the Evangelist had spoken to Cyprian. 
During that space the young man gave himself up to seri- 
ous reflection, and earnest prayer, in order to find out 
God’s will regarding his future. Every day a presbyter of the 
Church of Ephesus instructed him in the lofty duties of a Chris- 
tian minister, and pointed out the means necessary to acquire 
the sanctity such a state requires. Daily, about sundown, the 
doors of a large apartment were thrown open, through which 
worshippers singly, or in groups of families, entered, and stood 
or knelt : the men on the right and the women on the left. 
When the congregation had assembled, the clergy entered from 
a small side door, the deacons with their flowing tunics, first in 
order 3 then the priests with white garments and a broad stole, 
which was crossed on their breasts ; and, lastly, assisted by two 
clerics, the amiable St. John. Cyprian was given a place 
apart with a dozen others, some young men, some middle aged, 
who were preparing more or less remotely to enter the minis- 
try. When the procession reached the altar, at the upper end 
of the room, the people stood up, and then knelt on the marble 
floor. The Evangelist, who was very old and feeble, sat 
during the reading by priests or deacons, of portions of the 
Old Testament. Then a priest advanced towards the Apostle 
and received his blessing with bowed head. In his hand he 
carried a large scroll of parchment, which, when he had 
reached the farther corner of the large table or altar, he un- 
rolled, assisted by a deacon, and proceeded to read aloud. 
The people thereupon stood up, for the scroll was a copy 
of the holy Gospel according to St. Matthew. Once the part 
read was from the 19 th chapter, which records a conversation 


140 


IRENE OF CORINTH, 


between our Lord and a young man, who sought advice 
from Him. After telling him that to be saved he must keep 
the Commandments, Jesus replies in answer to a further ques- 
tion, “ If thou wilt be perfect, go sell what thou hast, and give 
to the poor, and thou shalt have . treasure in heaven; and 
come, follow me.” The words seemed to Cyprian to be an in- 
vitation to himself, from Christ; and straightway all his doubts 
and misgivings vanished. He threw himself down upon his 
knees unconscious of the presence of those about him, and ex- 
claimed, “ I follow thee, my Lord.” His previous doubts arose 
from two sources ; first, his sense of unfitness, and secondly, 
bis attachment to earthly things, above all his love for Anna. 
His father had owned a considerable amount of property in 
Corinth which he might possibly reclaim. He was young, and 
just of an age when the seductions of passion are most enthrall- 
ing. His youthful imagination magnified every trifling plea- 
sure into an ecstasy ; and his inexperience foresaw only vic- 
tory in the battle of life where his mature years wouldjpro- 
bably meet with crushing disaster and defeat. In every pleasant 
or amiable acquaintance he beheld a friend ; in every friend he 
sought a confidant in whom he could trust implicitly. How 
rudely would the finished and polished angles of his childish 
candor be broken, or ground off by contact with treachery in 
the very sanctuaries of his love ! He had looked upon the 
comely and smiling form of life as it beckoned to him from afar ; 
how shocking the discovery, when hq would draw closer to it, 
and find it a mass of creeping, corrupting hypocrisy. How 
many a young man is perverted into a fiend, or, at least a gloomy 
hater of his kind, by the discovery of this detestable self-seek- 
ing, even in high places, which builds up its slimy reputation on a 
basis of hypocrisy, and by the betrayal of the most sacred and 
solemn confidences ! But Cyprian had not lived to have this 
fatal knowledge. For him the birds sang as sweetly, and the 
flowers smelt as deliciously, as if the sin of Eden had not set a 
limit to their duration. Nature and life abounded with har- 
mony, and his instinct urged him to taste and be filled with the 
good things about him. 

His love for Anna had blazed up into a flame which he could 
hardly master. Of course he would some day find her, perhaps 
rescue her from dire distress — then lead her to the altar. What 


AN APOSTOLIC ADVICE. 


141 


could he not do for her sake ? In fact he felt that he could not 
live without her ; it was therefore his duty to return and look for 
her. Thus for hours he would dream day dreams — as pure nul- 
lities as any nocturnal revery — until distracted in some way and 
brought back to the region of sense. 

He had made no promises to Anna, but he knew that she 
loved him, and had proved her love by self-sacrifice — the best of 
all pledges. He loved her too ; he could not deny it. Would 
it not be cruel to abandon her 1 It might, indeed, if he were 
sure she could be found ; but the answer, even in this event 
which was all improbable, would be modified by the obliga- 
tion of abandoning alll things, and sundering all ties in pre- 
sence of a Divine call, to sacrifice oneself in the minis- 
try of Christ. None but they who have passed through the 
struggle can at all realize the violence and the suffering it 
induces ; Christ, on the one hand, gently prompting, sweetly 
urging : on the other hand passion, furiously dragging the soul 
on, and threatening a life of misery, if its behests be. not 
obeyed. In struggles and doubts of this kind, it was that 
Cyprian had passed the week of preparation. The words of 
the Gospel, as we have seen, hastened his decision. He re- 
mained kneeling during the discourse of the Apostle , which 
followed the reading of the sacred text, and arose to receive the 
Sacred Elements at the communion, with a joyful heart, and a 
mind impressed with the conviction that the hand of God had 
set him apart for himself. 

The words of the Evangelist were well chosen to encourage 
one who had come to the resolve of our young friend. Repeat- 
ing the words which he had already written in his first epistle, 
John said to his hearers, “ Love not the world, nor the things 
that are in the world. If any man love the world, the charity 
of the Father is not in him. For all that is in the world is the 
lust, of the flesh, and the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life ; 
which is not of the Father, but is of the world. And the 
world passeth away, and the lust thereof ; but he that doeth 
the will of God abideth forever.” The Evangelist then dila- 
ted upon what many martyrs had suffered for Christ, and the 
reward they already enjoyed. He foretold, too, how he would 
soon be called on to suffer for his Lord, and exhorted his 
hearers to pray for him, “ Love one another, my little chil- 


142 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


dren,” te repeated often, “ Love one another, and cause strife 
to cease ; you will be called upon soon again to shed your 
blood for your faith ; and if you have not charity for one 
another, ybu will not be able to suffer for Christ. I alone of 
all the Disciples am now alive, and shortly I shall be called 
away too. Remember then my teaching, and teach your chil- 
dren as I have taught you. Be obedient to your prelates, lest 
false teachers seduce you from the faith.” When he had finished 
speaking, preparations were made for offering the sacrifice of 
the New Law. From a small table a quantity of bread was 
taken, and placed on the centre of the altar, upon a clean linen 
cloth. A large chalice was then filled with wine and water, 
and the Apostle having first offered them up to Qod, by several 
prayers, pronounced over them the creative words of Christ, 
“ This is my body — this my blood.” Then all fell prostrate 
upon their faces, and adored the Real Presence of J esus, in the 
sacramental Elements. As the Apostle then lifted them up to 
distribute to the clergy, and people, a heavenly radiance over- 
spread his face ; the wrinkles which age had imprinted on his 
brow seemed to be smoothed out, and the youthful appearance 
of the Saint suggested that the veil, which separated the real 
body of the Lord from the vision of corporal eyes, was re- 
moved for him, so that he might once more look on the sweet 
countenance of the Man-God, on whose bosom he reclined on 
the night of the Eucharistic institution. Then the priests 
chanted “ Holy, Holy, Holy, Lord, God of Sabaoth,” and the 
communicants advanced to the front of the altar. 

Oh, who can fancy, at this distance from the Apostolic age, 
the sincerity and the simplicity of the faith of these early Chris- 
tians ! Living in stormy times, their property, their peace, 
their very lives in danger at any moment, from the fury of mob 
violence, or the refined cruelty of legal murder ; with what in- 
tensity of conviction did they cling to the promises of the Gos- 
pel, announced by the lips of the Lord’s own disciples. True, 
there were bad weeds among them ; but the persecutions always 
exposed them, and separated them from the good grain. 

When the Communion was past the priests read a great 
number of prayers of thanksgiving, and then the Apostle pro- 
nounced the benediction. After this the clergy retired in the 
same order as they had entered, and the congregation departed, 


AN APOSTOLIC ADVICE. 


143 


several among them having previously deposited sums of money 
or loaves of bread on the credence table, for the support of the 
clergy and for distribution to the poor. Next morning Cyprian 
was admitted to a private conversation with the Evangelist, in 
which he disclosed his resolution to sacrifice himself in the 
Lord’s vineyard for the good of souls. St. John embraced him, 
and told him that he was already aware of his decision, and 
assured him that his call was from God, a privilege granted to 
very few. “ As Aaron,” said he, “ was called to the priesthood 
of the Law, so the minister of the Gospel must be caUed to the 
altar. He is destined to sit in judgment on his brethren, but 
also to suffer with his Master, whose priesthood he shares. 
You do not yet know the wiles of the world ; its deceits^ its hy- 
pocrisy. Had you yielded to your natural instincts, you would 
have abandoned your Divine calling. You would have tasted 
of the sweets of life, and speedily found them bitter and dis- 
appointing. Whoever sacrifices himself for his brethren will 
have a reward, an hundred fold, even in this life, and in the 
heavenly Jerusalem his joy will know no end.” When CypVian 
told St. John of his relations towards Anna he was much 
moved. “ It is a case among a thousand,” said he, “ but she 
shall yet rejoice in the choice which you have made. Generous 
though she is, she would resent your betrothal to another 
woman, but not to the Church of the Lord.” 

A short time after this Cyprian was ordained a priest, and 
commissioned to preach the Gospel of Christ, not alone in 
Ephesus, but in the surrounding country. His zeal and earnest- 
ness impressed many of his own countrymen, and often, on the 
spot where the Divine call was first heard by him, he preached 
to the crowds who were proceeding to the Temple of Diana ; 
and became, in the hands of God, the instrument of many con- 
versions to the faith. His fame travelled all over the Asiatic 
provinces of the empire ; and the learned men and philosophers 
flocked to hear him, whenever he preached, fascinated no less 
by the sublimity of the doctrine he expounded than by the ele- 
gance of his diction, and the beautiful simplicity of his style. 
Occasionally some apostate from the faith would interrupt 
him, but always to his cost. Once, for instance, as the crowd 
hung on the lips of the young minister, a certain man who was 
a disciple of the heretic* Cerinthus, thus addressed him : — 


144 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


“ Your doctrines are false. My master, Cerinthus, has taught 
and proved, that God did not create the world, and is not re- 
sponsible for what happens in it. Jesus is not God, he is a man 
only, like any of us. If we wish to be saved we must believe 
in Moses and follow his doctrines ; then we shall have a thou- 
sand years of pleasure on this earth with Jesus. I pray you, 
brethren,” said he, then turning to the audience, “ do not lis- 
ten to this man for he is an impostor.” Cyprian was grieved 
and annoyed, but kept his temper, and spoke not to the here- 
tic, but to the people : “ Men, brethren,” said he, “ this man 
denies that God created heaven and earth, but your reason tells 
you that nothing less than a Supreme and Infinite Power could 
call intg existence what exists now. Again, he says that Jesus 
was not God ; but who, think you, is the better judge of what 
Jesus was, and claimed to be — His disciple John or this man 1 
John tells us that Jesus is, and claimed to be, the Son of 
God. If He is not God and He claimed to be God, then was 
He an impostor. But that He is not an impostor. His miracles 
clearly prove. Cerinthus, whom this man follows, also taught 
that the particular laws of Moses were binding on all men 
unto salvation. But this cannot be, as some of those laws were 
made for reasons that have ceased to exist. The Command- 
ments certainly bind all men, but until the disciples of Christ 
command us to obey the ceremonial laws of Moses, we shall 
hold ourselves free. We preach what we have been taught 
by those whom the Lord empowered to teach all nations ; 
and therefore it is not lawful to listen to false teachers, 
who appoint themselves.” “ Cerinthus was no false teacher,” 
exclaimed the angry disciple, aloud ; “ he was inspired by the 
Holy Ghost.” “Brethren,” replied Cyprian, “if the Holy 
Ghost would inspire men thus indiscriminately, what would 
have been the use of Christ, the Son of God, sending chosen 
men to preach His Gospel 1 And again, how can any man who 
contradicts the teaching of the Lord’s disciples be inspired by 
the Spirit of God ? Does God, then, contradict Himself 1 ” The 
multitude cheered the logical answers of the speaker, and drove 
the follower of Cerinthus from their midst. When the commo- 
tion had ceased Cyprian spoke of the life of the heretical Cerin- 
thus, and recalled the circumstances of his tragic death. One 
day the Evangelist saw him entering the public baths, he drew 


AN APOSTOLIC ADVICE. 


145 


back, and in prophetic spirit exclaimed to his attendant^, 
“ Come away from this place, the anger of God will destroy it, 
and with it His enemy.” Hardly had they retired from the 
spot when the building was riven asunder and fell to the ground, 
burying beneath its ruins the violent apostate. “ Thus,” said 
the zealous Cyprian, “ perished one of the first disturbers of the 
peace of the Church. You all know these facts,” he continued, 
“ but only those who are true believers see in them the finger 
of ProvideEkce, chastising one who wilfully opposed His reve- 
lation.” 

In order to understand how professing Christians could be- 
lieve in the Millennium, that is, the doctrine that Christ would 
reign on earth for a period of a thousand years, with His elect, 
and allow them to indulge in all the pleasures of sense, we 
must become acquainted with the sentiments and aspirations 
of the Jews, at the dawn of the Christian era. The Jews had 
been always looked upon as a carnal nation, even the Scriptures 
calling them obdurate or hard-hearted, and “stiff necked.” 
They were promised wealth above all other nations, though 
their numbers were relatively few, and victory, through the 
Messias, over their enemies, on condition that they kept the 
law. From these promises, with which the Old Testament 
abounded, the Eabbis and Scribes inferred that the Messias 
would be a powerful ruler, who would subdue the world, and 
place the Jewish people in the front rank of nations; and so 
they taught the people. It does not seem to have struck them 
that, over and over again, the nation violated its pledges and 
vows ; and the idea of a spiritual supremacy for the Redeemer 
took little or no hold on their worldly affections. What the 
songs of the Cid were in later days to the Spaniard, the fireside 
tales of future glory were to the crest-fallen Israelite ; and as 
the former sighed for the day when the proud Moslem would 
be driven into the sea, so the subject of a Roman Praefect 
cherished the hope that even mighty Pagan Rome would bite 
the dust before a handful of J ewish striplings. This is why our 
Lord was rejected although His miracles should have convinced 
their stubbornness. Many among the first Jewish converts 
still clung to old forms and superstitions ; and when a man of 
learning and good address broached a doctrine so consonant 
with their lingering hopes and gradually decaying fancies, as 


146 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


the Millennium, they were ready to espouse it, and to sacrifice, 
in its maintenance, obedience to their pastors, and their birth- 
right to the true heaven. But the fate of the apostate who 
taught this doctrine, and with it so many other follies, opened 
the eyes of his dupes to the error of their ways, and brought 
most of them to a speedy repentance. 

Cerinthus was not, however, the only false teacher of the 
Apostolic age. Simon, the magician, was the first — but we 
shall hear of him farther on. He had a disciple named Menan- 
der, who styled himself a messenger from the “ Unknown 
Power.” He was a Jew or a Samaritan, and taught that a 
baptism in his name would confer upon the recipient immor- 
tality, even in this world. Many Jews were seduced into this 
error ; but the disappointment they met in his failure to keep 
his promise, soon shook their faith in him. Another apostate, 
who claimed to be a disciple of St. Peter, cultivated in his fol- 
lowers a hatred of St. Paul, used water instead of wine in the 
celebration of the Eucharist, and proclaimed the horrid blas- 
phemy, that Jesus was the son of Joseph and Mary and not 
the Son of God. His errors were so insidious, that St. John 
was induced to write his Gospel to prevent their rapid spread. 
A strange medley of doctrine was taught by Saturninus and 
Basilides, disciples of Menander. According to the former, the 
“ Unknown Father ” created the angels, who in turn created 
the universe. Jehovah was one of the bad angels, to dethrone 
whom, Jesus died. Our Lord, they said, had no real body, but 
only an apparent one ; and consequently did not really suffer. 
Basilides taught, among other queer things, that the Father 
created a number of angels, who, in turn, created others, and 
so on ; one set creating another, till there were three hundred 
and sixty-five sets of angels, each generation having a hea- 
ven of its own. The subtle minds of the Greeks were quick 
to adhere to vagaries like these ; and in. almost every commu- 
nity of Christians in Asia Minor, a few of these strange 
heretics could be found, always a source of trouble and scandal 
to true believers. Sometimes they confined their opposition 
to argument, but frequently they had recourse to violence ; and 
in the latter case they invariably united with the Pagans or 
the J ews, in persecuting their faithful brethren. It was the 
fate of Cyprian to meet with these heretics very often. Into 


AN APOSTOLIC ADVICE. 


147 


the churches they were not allowed, when once known to he 
heretics^; but they would assemble in private houses, or in pub- 
lic squares, and there ventilate their impious tenets. If any 
true believer by accident found himself in the midst of one of 
these assemblies, he would be compelled to listen to ribald at- 
tacks on his clergy, and would learn the lesson which the 
history of heresy has so forcibly illustrated : that apostates are 
more zealous to seduce souls than the faithful are to save them. 

Once a crowd of people who proved to be followers of Ebion 
was assembled in the market place of Ephesus, when Cyprian 
and a deacon were passing by. The crowd was listening to the 
noisy discourse of a short, wild-looking individual, with a 
very black beard, a turned up nose, a small upper lip, a pointed 
chin, the precise physiognomy of a villain. He had broad 
shoulders and awkward gestures, and spoke regardless of 
•grammar. Now he would raise his voice, and puff out his 
cheeks, and pour forth a torrent of vulgar abuse on the Cath- 
olics. Now he would lower it, and assuming a pious sing-song 
tone of entreaty, would call on the Father to destroy the idol- 
aters, who worshipped Jesus as His Son. “The Son of God 
will strike you dumb, blasphemer,” said Cyprian, addressing 
the haranguer. No sooner were the words uttered than the 
man began gesticulating savagely, and leaping up into the air. 
He could not utter a syllable ; and it seemed, moreover, that a 
devil had taken possession of his body. But the crowd turned 
madly upon Cyprian and his companion, beat him to the earth 
and rained blows without number on his prostrate form. They 
then tied his feet together, and were about to drag him through 
the streets, when a b^ody of soldiery appeared on the scene, and 
rescued him from his blood-thirsty assailants. 

Some time after this occurrence, as Cyprian rose one day 
from his knees in the chapel, where he made his daily medita- 
tion on Divine truths, a servant bowed and presented a letter. 
He opened it, and found it to be an invitation to dine at the 
house of one of the Pagan priests. As this was something very 
unusual, he showed the letter to his superior and asked for 
counsel. St. John prayed for a moment, and then told the 
young priest to go, and further the work of the Lord. Cyprian 
accepted the invitation accordingly, and set out at the appointed 
hour. The banquet was one of the best that a rich man could ’ 


148 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


provide. At the board reclined two Pagan priests, the Praefect 
of the city and several men of letters. As the viands disap- 
peared the conversation varied from the crops to politics, and 
from this to philosophic systems ; thence to religion proper. 
The accurate knowledge possessed by one so young as Cyprian 
astonished them all. After discoursing freely for some time 
upon the various systems that had become popular for a time, 
and then sank into oblivion, or contempt, the priest concluded 
thus : “ The existence of so many systems demonstrates two 
Miings clearly ; first, that the human mind cannot but pursue 
truth ; and secondly, that the most powerful efforts of reason 
have failed to find it. Portions of truth are to be found in 
every philosophic school ^ but so many errors are mixed up 
with them that the common sense of man finally rejects them. 
Your Persian sages will cling to their two gods, the one in- 
finitely good, the other eternally bad. Your Epicureans laugh at 
the idea of creation, and attribute the production of the” uni- 
verse to blind chance ; and the Jew will exclude all men except 
his own countrymen from future happiness, Christianity alone 
teaches a sound system of philosophy ; for it acknowledges the 
inability of our reason to master all the problems of nature and 
life. It sheds the light of a Divine revelation over the dark 
spots, which have puzzled our wise men, and thus clears up the 
mystery of existence.” 

Speaking of the founder of the Christian religion, he thus 
summarized his history Jesus was born in the midst of 
extraordinary events, and at a time when the tired eyes of all 
men were looking for a deliverer. He went about during his 
life doing good— helping the needy, sustaining the poor, heal- 
ing all infirmities, raising the dead to life,- and preaching a Gos- 
pel of hope and peace to' the lowly— and He died amidst the 
most terrific commotions of nature which thus testified to His 
influence.” The Pagan priest, whose guest Cyprian was, here ' 
rose, and stated in the name of all present, that they hoped the 
disciple would prove by miracles the power of his Master “ We 
whom you see assembled here to-night,” said he, “are men of 
letters, who have wandered through seas of philosophy, and 
have met only shipwreck and disaster everywhere. Finally 
the story 01 the Areopagite, who became a Christian, set us 
all studying the doctrines of this new sect. We find it con- 


AN APOSTOLIC ADVICE. 


149 


soling, perfect in fact, and just such as a God would reveal. 

But we find so many divisions among your people that we can- 
not but hesitate before abandoning our own religion. We, 
have, however, proposed a test, which we believe will be a final 
argument in favor of whoever accepts it. You remember that 
a certain man, an Ebionite, was one day preaching when you 
were passing through the market-place “I remember it 
well,” replied Cyprian, jwho already foresaw what the test spoken 
of by the priest would be. “ He was suddenly struck dumb, 
was he not 1 ” “ He was,” said the priest, not a little astonished 
at his knowledge of the fact, “ and he has ever since been in 
terrible agony, and no one of his own sect has been able to re- 
lieve him. Physicians say his case is beyond their skill ; fol- 
lowers of Cerinthus, and Saturninus, and Magus*' have all at- 
tempted in vain to heal him. If yon succeed, and it is, with 
reverence, we would ask the performance of a prodigy, we will 
be convinced that your teaching of the doctrine of Christ is the 
true one.” When he had finished speaking, the others signified 
their assent to the proposal. Cyprian rose upland thus ad- 
dressed them. “ What you ask, brethren, is a display of the 
power of God, for your special benefit : but as you ask in a 
reverent, not a cavilling spirit, as did the Jews whom Jesus re- 
proached, a miracle will be operated in your presence. It 
ought, however, to be enough for you, that a disciple of the Lord 
is alive and among you to teach His true doctrine. The here- 
tics are but few, though they make great clamor, and the true 
Christians hold their peace and .worship God in silence. The 
unfortunate man who lost his speech was blaspheming Christ ^ 
when he received his chastisement ; go, however, bring him 
here.” - The man was accordingly brought into the presence of 
Cyprian. He was a relative of the Pagan priest, and had taken 
shelter under his roof. As soon as he saw Cyprian he fell on 
the floor in the most awful convulsions. His face was pale and 
haggard, and his eyes started from their sockets, and blood 
flowed from the many cuts he had inflicted on himself in his 
agony. The guests were terrified, and retreated as far as pos- 
sible from the sufferer ; and even those who were in charge of 
him shrank from his contact. Cyprian, on the contrary, ad- 
vanced boldly towards him, and with his thumb made on his 
forehead the sign of the cross. Not more quickly does the 


150 


IRENE OF CORINTH, 


arrow speed from the bow than the man stood erect, completely 
cured. His first act was to praise the name of Christ, and 
throwing himself at the feet of Cyprian he confessed, with 
tears of deep contrition, his error in doubting the Godhead of 
Christ. The impression made on those learned men was un- 
mistakable. They felt that a Divine power was in their midst, 
and they acted accordingly. They knelt, and wept with the 
joy that only those experience who after a long and perilous 
voyage, arrive safely at last in port. They kissed the young 
priest’s hands, and begged for instant admission to the society 
of the faithful. Not only they, but their families and relations, 
and slaves became Christians, some of whom had the happiness 
of dying for their faith in the persecution which took place 
shortly after, during the reign of Domitian. 

About this time it happened that the Church of Alexandria 
had need, on account of its rapid growth, of a great number 
of priests and deacons, and as Cyprian spoke the Latin as well 
as the Greek tongue, his translation to the See of St. Mark, 
would, it wa^i thought, be productive of great good. Accord- 
ingly he received the necessary papers of commission and dis- 
missal ; and, having heard from Corinth that his father had 
not returned thither, set out for the capital of Egypt. 



CHAPTEK XV. 

A FRAUD EXPOSED. 

& NNA was only a short time in the service of Nilos, the 
rich Egyptian merchant, when she endeared herself to 
every member of the fatnily, and also to the slaves ex- 
cept one very black Nubian woman. Nilos, himself, finding 
her to be educated, soon admitted her to the confidence of the 
household, and entrusted her with the keeping of certain ac- 
counts of a private nature. Although this excited jealousy at 
first, the natural sweetness of Anna’s temper, and her uniform 
kind treatment of the slaves over whom she was placed, com- 
pelled their respect, and soon disarmed their envy. Thfe old 
Nubian alone was obdurate. She hated Anna at sight, and she 
continued to hate her in spite of, or rather on account of, her * 
virtuous conduct. It is a notable characteristic of the vice of 
hatred that it is rarely extinguished by good acts. The victim 
of this vice cannot see any virtue in the object of its rancor. 
Every action of the person hated is criticized, and if nothing 
bad can be made out of a certain act, its motive will surely be 
assailed, and it will be called hypocritical. 

At last, after meditating many schemes of revenge against 
harmless Anna, the Nubian hit on a plan which promised suc- 
cess. She set about inspiring her mistress with jealousy, “ the 
green-eyed monster, which doth mock the meat it feeds on.” 
Anna was often alone with the master of the house, when 
making np his accounts, a fact which furnished the Nubian with 
a basis for her accusations. The mistress was naturally an un- 
suspicious woman, who only laughed at the hints dropped by 
the black slave ; but as the latter persisted in her strange con- 
duct, the wife of Nilos kept a watch on all the maiden’s 
actions. This conduct of her mistress became exceedingly 


152 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


vexations, and subjected her to the scorn of the other slaves, 
whom the negress informed of its cause. “ How impudent,” 
they would say, “of this Jewess to attempt to supplant our 
mistress ! ” A very short time, however, was required to dis- 
pel the illusion from the mind of every one who knew Anna. 
But a suspicion once aroused is hard to allay entirely ; and as a 
consequence she was treated by Nilos himself (who loved his 
wife tenderly) if not harshly, at least with less attention than 
formerly. This was, of course, prudent and proper on his part ; 
but on the victim of an atrociops slander, it inflicted a deep 
and lasting wound. 

One day when Anna was sitting in a lonesome part of the 
beautiful gardens, weeping, where she thought no human eye 
would witness her affliction, she heard a soft tread quite near 
her. Turning quickly around she confronted Zelta, the slave, 
whose conversation on the ship had so interested her. This 
was the first time they met since that day ; for, being engaged 
in different occupations, they were kept too far apart to find 
such an opportunity. “ I am glad to see you, Zelta,” said 
Anna, involuntarily approaching and embracing her. “ And 
I ” said the Indian,” “ am glad, yet sorry, to find you here. 
You are weeping, and I would gladly dry up your tears, or 
sl^^re your burden.” “ Alas,” said Anna, “ you know, of 
course, why I weep, I have not fortitude to bear up under false 
accusations, and averted looks.” Then, suddenly branching 
from the subject, she asked abruptly, “ Zelta, I would like to 
know what your religion is ; for though I see you burdened 
often and harshly treated, you do not seem to complain ; on the 
contrary you always seem joyful.” The slave smiled, and re- 
plied, “ I am a Christian, and think you also are one.” Anna 
was surprised and delighted beyond expression. For some 
minutes she could only weep and kiss the newly-found friend, 
whom she began to love, as a sister. “lam almost a Chris- 
tian,” she said at length, “but I have not been baptized ; and 
though I try to practise what I know of it, yet I feel thSt I am 
a stranger to its spirit and its consolations.” “ 0 my dear sis- 
ter,” replied Zelta, “ the peace of soul our religion bestows 
does not exempt us from sufiering, and sometimes we are left 
without consolation for out trial- The Lord knows what is best 
for us.” “What you say, Zelta, is true,” answered Anna, “ but 


153 


A FRAUD EXPOSED. 

tell me how did you become a Christian ; surely there are no 
Christians in India or in Persia 1 ” “ You are mistaken,” 

said Zelta in reply, “ for every country has already received 
the doctrine of Christ. This I have often heard from the 
priests, and they cannot be mistaken about the facts.” She 
went on, in her own figurative style, to relate that it was from 
St. Bartholomew her country had received the faith. St. 
Simon and St. Jude had preached the glad tidings in Persia and 
Armenia, and had been put to death with lances and arrows. 
But the most dreadful of conceivable deaths was reserved for 
the Apostle of India. He set out from Patalene, at the mouth 
of the glassy Indus, for Chaldea. Then he sailed up the 
Tigris to Ctesiphon, and thence by land he went to Armenia. 
Everywhere miracles marked his progress. The sailors with 
whom he travelled, were saved from shipwreck by his prayers ; 
they believed and were baptized. At Albania, he converted 
the king Polymius and his wife, besides the inhabitants of 
many cities, who listened to his .preaching. But Astyages, 
brother to the converted king, and a number of others were in- 
flamed with hatred of the Apostle, by Xhe Pagan priests. 
“ This,” said Zelta, “ was only a few years ago, and I can never 
forget it, for my poor mother was killed shortly afterwards. 
She and I were sold by our master to an Armenian, who took 
us away at once to his own country. We went partly by 
land and partly by sea, as it suited our purchasers : and 
thus we were able to visit the great city of Persepolis. 

“ Almost upon arriving there, I met a Christian priest, who 
told me of the wonderful spread of the Faith in Persia. Like 
the sun’s rays it pours its light into every corner of the world. 
We were but a short while in Albania when we heard of the 
preaching of St. Bartholomew, and we found means to see 
him. It was the day before his death. Next day his execu- 
tioners took him to the suburbs, and there beat him with 
clubs, till all his bones were broken. Then with great pincers 
they tore the skin from his' head and back, and beheaded him 
with an axe. I could see his murderers from afar, but my 
mother who ventured nearer, was seized by them, cruelly 
beaten, and sent bleeding away. Oh, how my heart sickened 
at the thought of the dreadful pain endured by our apostle ! 
And then my mother,” continued Zelta, “how her wounds 


154 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


pained her ! She had no permission to be away from home 
past a certain hour. Her excuse would not be taken, and she 
was condemned to be beaten with rods. This was the punish- 
ment inflicted on slaves for disobedience. They stripped her 
to the waist, and placing her on the ground, face downwards, 
they tied her hands together to one stake and her feet to 
another, and proceeded to punish her. Oh, how my brain 
reeled ; my blood coursed madly through my veins, as 1 looked 
on that back, already bruised and striped, and I sprang at the 
first man that aimed. a blow at her! In another moment I had 
lost consciousness ; I was laid low by a stroke from a club, 
and the beating proceeded. Slowly, but fiercely, her torturers 
carried out their bloody work, stripping with their whips her 
quivering flesh from the broken ribs ; and when I regained my 
senses, my mother was dead. They had killed her." The 
slave trembled like a withered leaf in an autumn wind as she 
finished her narrative, and the vivid memory of the sad event, 
caused her to rock from side to side, as she pressed her con- 
tracted brow, and leaned for support against an ivy-clad but- 
tress of the garden wall. Anna 'wept, seeing her grief, and 
spoke (it was her turn now) soothing words to the sufferer. 
With a fresh outburst of tears, Zelta banished the dreadful 
memory, and endeavored to resume her former attitude of 
calm. 

After this, she detailed the circumstances of her conversion 
and that of W mother, her former master, and several others 
in her native city, where the Apostle had healed many sick, and 
raised the king’s son from the dead. Her second master, she 
said, gave her to a family which was going to Jerusalem, to join 
in the Paschal celebration, the year in which the siege by Titus 
began. As her new master had a great deal of money with 
him and many jewels, he was harassed by Simon, the tyrant, 
until he had to give up the last mina. In his extremity he 
parted with his servants to Macarias for a trifle ; and this was 
also taken from him by the inexorable Simon. Although 
Anna grieved for the hardships of the poor slave, such an 
eventful history had a novelty that interested and instructed 
her. She had not known the inward wofulness of the state 
of slavery, the hardships it begets, the wrongs it inflicts, until 
to-day. Accustomed to treat her servants kindly when she 


A FRAUD EXPOSED. . 


155 


moved in the circle of her own family, she believed, innocent 
creature, that the whole world acted in like manner. But she 
now discovered that the slave was a human tool, to be used, 
or abused, at its master’s will ; so that if he maimed or mur- 
dered his slave, no • law in any country would call him to ac- 
count. She stood long on the same spot, pondering over the 
revelation, evidently unconscious of the presence of Zelta, and 
wondering what would be the outcome of her own position. 
She was roused from this reverie by the sound of a bell, which 
was rung to summon the servants of a certain department to 
their work. Zelta was already gone. She had anticipated 
the bell, and not wishing to disturb her friend’s meditation, 
glided as swiftly away as she came. 

The Nubiain was meanwhile nursing her wrath, and having 
failed in her first attempt on the character of Anna, she had 
recourse to incantations. Even to this day, the Africans are 
strangely given up to this kind of superstition, the absurdity 
of which is only equalled by the ludicrous shapes it often 
assumes. For several nights, when' the moon was nearly full, 
the black woman might be seen gliding along the walls, occa- 
sionally stopping, then putting something into a wicker pipkin 
and finally returning stealthily to her quarters. On these 
occasions she was armed with a long fork, and was looking for 
toads, spiders, lizards and other kinds of reptiles or insects,* 
which she intended to employ — “ for a charm of powerful 
trouble ” — against the object of her hate. Anna, however, 
went about, as usual, doiug her work with even more cheerful- 
ness than before her interview with Zelta ; and in many ways 
it was quite discernible, that she was buoyed up by some new 
spirit. The reader, doubtless, has already guessed, and guessed 
rightly, that she received Baptism, and was therefore, more 
contented and resigned to the circumstances of her position. 
Noi far from the residence of Nilos, on the slope of a gently 
rising and verdure-clad hill, there was a mansion, little, if it all 
inferior to his, in architectural beauty, and gracef^ully appointed 
surroundings. Near the entrance to this mansion, stood 
two enormous elms, which had a sacred significance when their 
owner was a pagan ; but now ttey only served to excite that 
adoration, which. the works of nature always beget in rational 
minds. This was the site of the suburban church of Alexan- 


15G 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


dria. When Arbax became a convert to Christianity, through 
the preaching of St. Mark, he gave up the largest rooms of his 
house for the convenience of the little Christian community 
formed in his neigborhood. Soon, however, the number of 
those who received the faith increased so vastly, that a dozen 
such houses could not accommodate' them ; and various places 
were chosen, in and about the city where the holy mysteries 
could be celebrated and the Gospel preached to the neophytes. 
During the persecution under Nero, many of these abandoned 
the external practice of their religion ; some fled from the tor- 
tures, and many of those who remained were taken from the 
chapels and offered the alternative of apostasy or death. 
When the tyrant died the people breathed freely, and the 
chapels were once more frequented by worshippers. The resi- 
dence of Arbax was found convenient by the servants of Nilos, 
several of whom, it was in time discovered, were Christians. 
Arbax and Nilos were on terms of friendship, and frequently 
exchanged visits, which were always taken occasion of to in- 
troduce religious topics. Arbax had seen with his own eyes, 
he said, some of the much talked of miracles performed by 
the Christian Apostle, even on his way to execution, and in 
consequence defended his own conversion from, paganism to 
Christianity. Nilos was greatly moved by the accounts his 
*friend gave of the miracles ; “ but,” he would say, “ our magi- 
cians and our priests of Isis lead as good and chaste lives as 
your Christian ministers.” “ Alas ! ” said Arbax, “ when I was 
younger, I, too, believed in the mummery of the magicians, in 
the sacredness of cats and crocodiles, and in the chastity of 
the priests of Isis, but later on, I found them to be impostors, 
all. I know particularly, that a young woman, whom I loved, 
was infatuated by these priests ; and when, after ten years of 
ministration among them as a priestess, she was converted, as 
I was, to Christianity, by an evident miracle, she disclosed the 
filthy secrets of those designing men. We are children here. 
If we turn our eyes in the direction of Rome, we may see the 
temples of Isis resorted to by the foulest men and women 
of that foul city. It surprise^ me, Nilos, that you have been 
so long deceived. As for the doctrine of those men, what do 
they tell us 1 They pretend that they are necessary agents of 
their gods ; yet the inscription on their temples destroys their 


A FRAUD EXPOSED. 


157 


claim. That inscription, as you know, reads, ‘I am what- 
ever is or will be, and no mortal has ever raised the veil ; ’ and 
presents their best ideal of the Supreme Being. Yet they pre- 
tend to raise the veil ! ” “ Now, do not press me so hard,” 

pleaded the routed Nilos ; “ I try to do good as I know best, and 
I may not fare so badly after all. My wife is greatly under 
the influence of those men, and I could not begin to quarrel 
or argue with her, by any means.” Poor man, it was the old 
story of Adam and Eve. 

He loved his wife, and was content to please her, and risk 
his hereafter. He allowed his slaves to go to the house of his 
friend, to perform their religious duties, and occasionally even 
ventured to listen to a Christian priest expounding the Gospel. 
All this pleased him too ; but when, on these occasions, a veil 
was drawn across the part of the chapel called the Sanctuary, so 
that hone but the initiated could witness the progress of the 
Holy Sacrifice, he had certain doubts and misgivings, which 
even the assurances of his friend could not altogether remove. 

“ Why do they conceal from me,” he would ^sk, “that 
which they expose to my very slaves, to Anna, and even to 
Zelta i ” The reader of early Church history will understand 
why ; but for the general reader, we may just mention, in 
passing, that by the discipline of the “ Secret,” Christians 
were forbidden to reveal the doctrines of the Church to out- 
siders, for fear of contempt : and at the celebration of the 
Mass, visitors, penitents and catechumens were not allowed to 
be present at the consecration of the bread and wine, or were 
prevented by means of a thick veil or curtain from witnessing 
the sacred rite. 

The pagan priests began to fear, from the frequency of his 
visits, and the intimacy of his relations with Arbax, that Nilos 
would, sooner or later, abandon their superstitions ; and they ac- 
cordingly began to exert their influence with his wife, to retain 
him. In obedience to- their commands, she first forbade her 
slaves to attend Christian worship. Nilos was irritated ; but • 
he was powerless ; such was his peaceful disposition, and his 
wife’s ascendency over him. Now this occurred precisely at 
the time when the Nubian had begun to operate her charms on 
Anna. She had boiled together a quantity of reptiles’ blood, 
poisonous herbs, and the ashes of various kinds of burnt 


158 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


bones and leaves, and poured a little of the terrible mixture 
in places where Anna .was most likely to stand on it , and she 
even succeeded in throwing some of the charmed paste on the 
clothing of her victim, pronouncing the while this awful curse, 

“ Boil your blood and burn your veins ' 

Seize you fever’s direst pains ; 

Ministers of hell’s abyss, trample on you.” 

The command of the mistress was the first intimation of the 
potency of this charm ; but the full benefit was suspended for 
a time. It was only a week, however, till the Nubian was fully 
gratified. Anna had gone secretly to the services at Arbax’s 
house, and was discovered when returning by the black woman, 
who at once reported the transgression to the mistress. Anna 
was summoned. She was questioned, and admitted the truth 
of the Nubian’s charge^ The woman became furious and 
struck Anna across the face with a cane, which was the only 
weapon within reach. In a moment the girl was blind, so 
sudden was the swelling of her cheeks and eyes. “God for- 
give you,” were the only words of remonstrance the martyr 
spoke, as she turned to grope her way from the apartment. 
As she proceeded, she was met by Nilos, who, perceiving blood 
dripping from her hands, with which she had covered her face, 
stopped her and inquired what had happened. She begged 
him not to trouble himself about her, and passed on. The next 
moment he was at his wife’s side — she was in a fit of hysterics. 
Quickly aid was summoned, and remedies applied to revive her. 
She was smitten, she 'Said, the moment she had struck Aniia, 
and now felt that she had done a wrong. Nilos was vexed, 
and suggested that reparation be made ; but just as he broached 
the subject, a priest of Isis entered, as he was accustomed to 
do, unannounced. ^ * 

Nilos bowed stiffly, and.the priest profoundly — he had studied 
human nature — and the semi-conscious wife turned her eyes im- 
ploringly towards him. “ I am come to heal you, my daugh- 
ter,” said the impostor, and he pointed towards the statue of 
Isis, which the pious wife of Nilos had set up in her apartment 
by his advice. The priests were in collusion with certain sculp- 
tors, and reaped a heavy harvest from the sale of their talking 
images. As he advanced towards the statue, it emitted a 


A FRAUD EXPOSED, 


159 


Strange sound, which awed the woman and caused Nilos to 
start. “ Strange,” he uttered, partly aloud, as he reflected on 
the prodigy. “ What would Arbax have to say if he were here V’ 
The priest caught the last words, and answered, “Worthy 
Nilos, I know Arbax, a weak-minded man who blasphemes the 
mighty gods of Egypt ; but Isis proves her claims on our homage 
from time to time, and honors her priests as you have just seen. 
The god Arbax worships is a dead Jew.” “ 0 Nilos, good mas- 
ter, hear me,” shrieked a female slave, interrupting the priest 
and throwing herself prostrate at the merchant’s knees. It was 
Zelta, who was present at the bedside of the sick woman. The 
blasphemous language of the priest of Isis was more than she 
could bear, and she felt herself impelled, as she afterwards ex- 
pressed, by the flaming hand of an angel, to vindicate the 
honor of her Redeemer. “ 0 Nilos, noble master,” she re- 
peated, as he hesitated, doubtful how to act, “ Jesus is no im- 
postor, and though I am but a poor slave, and the lowest worm 
of the earth, I have more power by my faith, than this priest 
or his false divinity.” “ She deserves death,” said the priest, 
betraying the greatest agitation, and fearful of an experiment 
which had so often proved fatal to pagan imposture. “ Beat 
her to death,” said the mistress faintly from the bed, “ slaves, 
seize her.” “ Quickly,” said the priest, forgetting in his anxiety 
to be rid of Zelta, that he was in another man’s house. “ Hurry 
her off", as your mistress bids you,” and he seized her by the 
neck to speed her departure, and struck her with the sistrum 
which he carried with him. But Zelta was on the alert, and 
wriggling out of his grasp she again appealed to N ilos to allow 
her to expose the statue fraud. Nilos was by this time con- 
vinced that if there were no imposture to expose, the priest 
would not have been so sorely exercised by the sally of a slave. 
Besides, although the mildest of men, he was indignant at the 
usurpation of his own authority by a stranger ; and he forth- 
with resented it, saying, “ 2ielta, what is your wish ? ” Her 
eyes were bright with tears which glistened as she raised her 
head to look up to the face of her questioner ; and still hold- 
ing his knees, she replied : “ Most noble master, if I but make 
the sign of the cross — the cross on which our Redeemer shed 
his blood — that statue will become dumb and fall to pieces.” 
Again the strange noise issued from the statue, this time louder 


160 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


than before, and everyone in the room, who could do so, re- 
treated terror-stricken towards the door, except the priest and 
the slave ; the sick woman had become unconscious from fright, 
the priest raved and shouted at the top of his voice that the 
goddess would strike any one dead that attempted directly or 
indirectly to interfere with her. Poor Nilos himself, almost 
regretted his vacillation,^ which looked like a compromise, and 
.was on the point of ordering Z el ta off to be scourged, when she, 
raising her right hand to her brow, touched it, and then in 
succession her breast and her shoulders, saying aloud so that 
every one could hear her^ “ In the name of the Father and 
of the Son and of the Holy Ghost,” — the last word was scarcely 
uttered when the sounds from the shrine ceased, the room 
trembled, and the statue fell to the ground, not broken into 
fragments merely, but literally ground to dust. Every one 
about involuntarily sank upon his knees, while the impostor, 
the priest Isis, fled from the scene, a man vanquished, exposed, 
and put to shame by a weak woman. Instead of glorying in 
her deed the humble slave went away to her employment, and 
sought, as soon as possible, an opportunity to kneel down and 
thank God for His vindication of His Son. 

Nilos, as soon as he recovered from the shock, approached the 
bedside of his wife, and found her rigid in the embrace of death. 
Yielding to his grief he threw himself upon the bed, and alter- 
nately wept and kissed those bloodless lips which he would 
give his fortune to see once more moving, [if ’twere only to 
chide him ; then with a breaking heart he turned away, and 
locking himself up in his own apartment refused to be com- 
forted, or even to eat for several days. All the dread circum- 
stances of that one day kept crowding into his brain, and chas- 
ing one another, till his reason seemed about to leave him. At 
last he knelt, struck by a sudden thought, and prayed to the 
true Qod to give him some comfort in his dire affliction. We 
..cannot realize, dear reader, the depth of woe to which a man 
sinks, who, bereft of the knowledge of the true God, and there- 
fore uncertain about the future, loses, at one stroke, the whole, 
or the great part of this world’s goods, or sources of comfort 
and gratification. His hopes are for the present life ; his 
struggles regard the present ; his aspirations^ never reach be- 
yond the present. When therefore a shadow clouds the lands- 


A FRAUD EXPOSED. 


161 


cape of his earthly vision, it chills his spirit and dejects his 
soul. 

When Nilos had finished the petition which he was address- 
ing to the “ Unknown God,'* he arose relieved in a measure, 
and with his mind made up to find out and worship the only 
true God, he took part in the funeral ceremonies of his wife. 



CHAPTER XVI. 


ROME ON FIRE. 


“ Crluhn die Liifte, Balken kracben, 

Pfosten stiirzen, Fenster klirren. 

Kinder jammeren, Mutter irren, 

, Thiere wimmem, 

Unter Triimmern ; » 

iVlles reunet, rettet, fluchtet.” 

— Schiller’s Song of the Bell. 


Glows the air, and beams are crashing, 
Pillars tumble, windows creaking, 

Mothers fleeing, children shrieking. 

Cattle moaning, wounded, groaning. 

All is running, saving, flying. — Translation. 



HEN Julius saw Irene’s face among the onlookers at 
the triumphal procession, he was, as we have seen, 
dazed ; and when he looked a second time she had 
disappeared. Did she see him 1 Her journey towards Rome, 
from the moment of her escape from the cave, was full of toil, 
though made without any real adventure. The land in this 
part of Italy is hilly, and rises gradually from the sea towards 
the north and east. It is picturesquely traversed by numerous 
little streams and brooks, all emptying finally into the Vol- 
turno, whose rocky bed is generally dry for, several months in 
the year. During the first zest of her freedom from bondage, 
Irene walked quickly along, and had covered many Roman 
miles before the combined effects of her recent sickness, and 
the direct sunlight, naade themselves felt. She was wandering 
through uncultivated lands and occasional tracts of heavy 
forest, when she became suddenly aware of her weakness. At 
once she slackened her pace, till she reached a field fresh 
ploughed and* sat down to rest. At a little distance she descried 
some men working with oxen and a rude plough, made simply 


ROME ON FIRE. 


163 


of two pieces of wood, which crossed each other at a very acute 
angle. This implement, though not so elaborate as our modern 
plough, stirred up the earth as well as the men of that day and 
that country, thought useful or necessary. When they neared 
that part of. the field where Irene sat she spoke to them, and 
asked if she could remain at their house for a time, until the 
heat of the day would be past. One of the men pointed to a 
copse at a little [distance to the left, and told her to go thither 
and speak with the woman, who was his wife. It was not easy 
to wade through the fresh:ploughed clay, but Irene made her 
way slowly in the direction indicated. As she came closer, 
she could see that the dwelling-house was situated far within 
the copse, and almost completely concealed by the foliage. 
She did not intend to ask for food or rest gratis, for she had 
money to pay for both ; but she feared that her presence there, 
travelling alone, would excite unpleasant suspicions. The 
reader will naturally ask here, how could she have money 1 A 
very natural question it is, but easily enough answered. While 
Irene was still aboard the ship which carried her from Alexan- 
dria — to almost a watery grave — she sewed up some of her 
jewels, and some small pieces of gold and silver coin in various 
parts of her clothing, and it turned out luckily enough for her 
that the robbers who took away her finger and ear rings, did 
not think of instituting a further search. 

Before entering the copse a couple of little squalid children 
ran out to look at her, and when they had gratified their curi- 
osity sufficiently, ran back to warn their parent of her coming. 
Approaching the door of the low, thatched, mud cabin, she 
was about to knock, when a sharp-faced woman with sunken 
fiery eyes made her appearance and inquired what she wanted 
there. Irene, who had by this time detached a coin from the 
end of her tunic, held it up and repeated the request she had 
made to the men. The sight of the coin softened the descend- 
ant, as she styled herself, of Cincinnatus by her father’s side, 
and a frugal meal was quickly prepared. As Irene partook of 
it, she engaged her queer hostess in- conversation, and among 
other things, asked her whether she had ever heard of the 
Christian religion. The woman replied that she had not, but 
that she had heard tell of some Jewish people who hated the 
gods and ate children. Irene could not help laughing at the 


164 


IRENE ‘OF CORINTH. 


idea, though she checked herself instantly, and asked whether 
the Komans did not expose children to perish on the moun- 
tains. “ 0 yes,” she answered, “ we all get rid of our deformed 
or sickly children in that way : What good are they ? ” 
Irene shuddered. “ Ma,” whispered one of the children, tug- 
ging at the parental skirt, “ is she Ceres 1 She is so pretty." 
The children had been told stories about Pan and Ceres, and 
had heard that the goddess was beautiful. That was all the 
religious instruction they were ever likely destined to receive. 

Irene remained at the cabin that night, sleeping on a straw- 
mat just outside the door ; as within there was but one room 
for the use of the whole family. Next day she set out early 
for Capua, where she remained a few days and took a public 
conveyance to Rome. As she entered the city, and passed 
along the foot of the Aventine, in the direction of the Circus 
Maximus, she saw new buildings going up on all sides, and men 
employed here and there clearing away the rubbish of vast 
temples which appeared to have been burned. Broken arches, 
fragments of beautifully decorated entablatures, portions of 
walls^sundered, but still standing with their Corinthian pilasters j 
sections of columns, and shapeless masses of bronze which 
once were statues, charred beams and burnt rods of bracing 
iron, spoke more forcibly than words could do, the fearful con- 
flagration, which served as an excuse for the brutal persecution 
under Nero. 

This fire, which devoured with insatiable appetite temples 
in which were collected the trophies and spoils of centuries, 
gathered from every region where Roman arms had carried 
victory, the palaces of fhe rich with their countless treasures 
of art, and the homes of the poor, with their scant yet neces- 
sary appointments, took place in the tenth year of Nero’s 
reign. Though Tacitus claims that it is uncertain whether 
the disaster was the result of accident or the crime of the 
Prince, Suetonius, Dio, and Sulpicius Severus assert distinctly 
that Nero was the incendiary. Starting at the circus among 
warehouses, which contained inflammable matter, it was borne 
along on the wings of a strong wind with incredible swiftness, 
through the narrow and crooked streets of the old city. Huge 
columns of dense black smoke ascended high heavenward, 
and rolled down again with the varying currents in the air, 


ROME ON FIRE. 


165 


sweeping the ground and blinding the struggling masses, who 
ran hither and thither frantically, through the streets. Those 
who fled at the first alarm found safety beyond the Tiber, 
or without the walls ; but of those who stayed to save 
their effects, to carry off the sick, to lead the aged, or the 
younger children to safer quarters, how many perished has 
never been known. Often it happened that a crowd of women 
and children running in one direction, driven by the heat and 
smoke, would rush against another crowd coming in the oppo- 
site direction, pursued likewise closely by the forked flames, 
for millions of sparks, which shot aloft like rockets from the 
burning dwellings, would whirl about in a giddy maze and de- 
scend afar off, carrying fresh destruction where they fell. . Thus 
many furnaces raged with increasing fury, in different parts of 
the city, at once hemming in the terrified inhabitants, and ren- 
dering difficult, almost impossible, their escape. Some driven 
to madness by fright or pain, seized brands from the burning, 
and threw them into houses yet untouched by the flames ; 
others did so out of spite, or in order to prosecute with better 
success, their trade of plundering, while many in despair, cast 
themselves into their burning dwellings, and perished with 
their offspring, on the sacred family hearth. Eor six days the 
conflagration went on, levelling with the ground, as Tacitus 
narrates, three wards, or districts of the fourteen, into which 
Rome was divided ; leaving only four intact, and so injuring 
the other seven, that only a few dismantled and half-burned 
roofs remained.* 

True, the tyrant provided for the houseless people tents and 
food at a cheap rate ; true, he gave prizes to those who would 
rebuild the finest residences on the ruins of their former 
palaces ; true, the new city with its wide streets, fountains, 
gardens, and, above all, Nero’s own Golden Palac6 was a noble 
capital for an emperor and home for the gods ; but all this 
could not remove the stigma attaching to Nero’s name as the 
author of the misery and suffering entailed by the awful cal- 
amity upon the citizens of Rome. Their hatred was still fur- 
ther intensified by a report, which went abroad, that while ruin 
was thus running riot among the people, the tyrant fiddled in 


Lib. XV. Annals. 


1G6 


IRENE OF CORINtH. 


his palace, or as Tacitus puts it, “ organised private theatri- 
cals and sang the destruction of Troy, likening the present 
to that ancient scourge.” To divert ^e suspicion, or rather 
certain punishment from himself, he gave out that the Chris- 
'tians were the authors of the crime, and published against 
them the blood-thirsty edicts which gave countless martyrs to 
the Church. 

Irene wept as the sights about her suggested the memory 
of sufferings! endured by women and children as heroically as 
by men, for the name of Christ; but she little thought as 
she approached the city, that the road over which she travel- 
led was mined by the catacombs in which the holy bodies of so 
many of these martyrs slept. Many a time atfer, she visited 
these underground graveyards, and always came away fired 
with an ardent desire for mkrtyrdom. On one of these occa- 
sions, as she rose from her devotions, her attention was drawn 
to an old man, by a heavy sigh w'hich seemed to proceed from 
him. There he stood, bent low by weight of years and sorrow, 
his hair snowy white, and sparse and long, swaying with the 
motion of his well-foi'med head. Behind the wrinkles which 
now furrowed his features, the keen eyes of Irene detected 
traces of a manly beauty long departed. The reddened eyelids, 
which in the dim light of the place seemed unnaturally deep, 
and of A purple hue, were moist with a single tear, which was 
big with the.tale of throbbing' visions that thronged his tired 
memory. There are moments in, perhaps, every human life, 
when sad reminiscences of the bitter past thus crowd all un- 
bidden upon the soul, drop their poisoned vial into its gaping 
wounds, and hie away making room for others twice as sad. 
We strive to put them from us, and we fail ; then we cling to 
them, yea, caress them, and grow loth, in spite of their oppres- 
sion, to part with them, strange beings that we are, as if from 
the very excess of our suffering we may extract a healing 
balm. Just as children love to hear weird tales of ghosts and 
goblins, though they shudder at the recital ! 

Thus stood the aged man beside Irene, wrapt up in thought, 
unconscious or regardless of observers, and gazed on a taWet 
let into the wall and bearing no other inscription than the let- 
ters X., wl^ose symbolism hidden in part from us, was preg- 
nant with a meaning 'for him that a world of books could not 
express. 


ROME ON FIRE. 


1G7 


At the moment when he was noticed by the young woman, 
the struggle which had been going on within him, between, on 
the one hand, the tenderness of a father’s love, and on the 
other, the heroic faith-born self-sacrifice of the Christian, was 
drawing to a close. There are temptations that seem like the 
purest whispering of the Divinity ; these are hardest to over- 
come, and oftenest fatal to the careless soul ; and his was of 
them. Within that tomb, it recjuired little fancy to depict the 
'mangled remains of a beautiful maid, a child in years, an angel 
in perfection, his only daughter, butchered to glut a tyrant’s hate. 
As he stood there motionless, he saw her once more as in child- 
hood kneeling at his side, and he felt her soft palm upon his wrin- 
kled forehead, her sweet breath upon his cheek. He saw his 
fond wife’s image mirrored in the large and loving eyes, as he 
looked down into the Upturned face ; he heard the dulcet 
music of the voice, now hushed lor ever, bidding him take cou- 
rage in his griefj or uttering the half sighed prayer for her 
father’s safety : and then in his bosom the tempest of long 
pent feeling arose. It was not like the wild raging tumultuous 
fury of the youthful lover, robbed by some rival of his bride ; 
but it was the deep, sullen, soul-splitting, lancinating ache of 
feeble age, which hounds on the sufferer to resist, though he 
cannot disarm the decree which blights his last and only hope. 
Why did he ever become a Christian 1 His son was torn from 
him first, then his wife, then his daughter — his darling child. 
“And what is left me now,” he thought, “ to live for ; what re- 
mains for me to look at but this cold, cold, marble stone, 
which marks the spot they rest in so calmly 1 ” He was told 
by his friends that he would be cursed if he abandoned the 
gods his. fathers worshipped, and alas ! when his thoughts had 
led him thus far, and he seemed ready to regret his change, 
an angel of peace was sent from the throne of Him who saw 
his agony and pitied it ; an angel — perhaps the spirit of his 
o\vn sainted child — to dry his tears and dispel his doubts. 

In an instant the storm that was raging within his soul sub- 
sided ; the deep conviction of his faith came back to him, and 
in the bereavement he had suffered, he saw clearly not a curse 
from gods which had no life, but blessings from the God who 
lives. In the light that faith shed around him, he saw his 
dear ones aloft on golden thrones, beside the Kedeemer who 


1C8 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


came into His glory through the shame of the cross ; he saw 
their arms stretched out, inviting him to join them in the 
bliss that has no end, and which their saintly prayers made 
surer for their father. He even seemed to catch an echo of the 
Divine harmonies of their abode, as the vision flitted from his 
sight, and he knelt upon the tufa pavement, with a radiant 
smile on his features and laughter in his heart. He raised 
his arms aloft, as a babe that wishes to be lifted by its mother 
from the cradle. The wrinkles faded from his brow, the 
healthy glow of youthful manhood returned to his counte- 
nance. Then, with a voice soft and melodious as a child’s, he 
exclaimed, as his eyes looted upward with infinite yearning, 
“ Yes, 0 Savior, I come.” A priest who had just reached the 
spot, stood still, and gazed on the touching spectacle. “This,” 
said he to Irene, “is Varro the father of a family of martyrs. 
His wife and all her children suffered for the faith, in the first 
year of the persecution ; and he escaped with his life after 
having been scourged and torn with iron hooks. The execu- 
tioners thought him dead, and left him to his friends ; but he 
survived, and for two years he has every day visited the tomb 
of his martyred children in this gallery.” He then approached 
the aged confessor, who still maintained his attitude of prayer ; 
but a single glance convinced him that the soul had fled to a 
better world. He was dead, but the sweetness of his calm 
looks would almost persuade one that he still lived. The 
priest knelt beside the body of the Saint, and with Irene re- 
cited a few short prayers. His friends were notified of his 
death, and with all due ceremony they laid him beside his wife 
and children, to sleep till the trumpet shall sound for the re- 
surrection. 

On her way to and from the Catacombs, Irene was accus- 
tomed to pass by the gloomy structure called the Mamertine 
prison. Often a shudder went through her frame as she looked 
at the small apertures with deep embrasures, which served as 
windows to yield a few rays of light to the unfortunate victims 
within. Here it was that St. Peter was imprisoned previous 
to his crucifixion on the Janiculum. From the same dungeon 
St. Paul was led out to be decapitated beyond the walls of the 
city. After a pious visit to all places in the city rendered 
sacrfd by Christian suffering, Irene concluded to remain in 


ROME ON FIRE. 


169 


Rome, and give herself up to a life of good works among the 
Christian poor. In order to have more ample means to carry 
out this design, she applied to the courts for the recovery of 
the property in Corinth, which her father had owned. She was 
certain of his death, and as far as she knew her brother was 
also dead ; for she deemed it impossible for him to escape 
from -the general massacre which followed the destruction of 
Jerusalem. She placed her case in the hands of an eminent 
lawyer, who exerted himself earnestly in the prosecution of the 
suit. After many months of delay, and several postponements, 
the matter was brought before the Senate, where Irene was 
obliged to appear in person. Although this famous legislative 
body had sunk almost into insignificance in point of power, yet 
it retained all its ancient dignity and external majesty. As Irene 
stood before that assembly, modestly, but with perfect compo- 
sure, she seemed to feel that she was there to be sentenced to 
death. She held these men, who had no manhood, in supreme 
contempt ; yet she prayed fOr their conversion and forgive- 
ness. It was by their weakness that Nero was enabled to carry 
on his persecution, and owing to their cowardice that men like 
him, and Galba, and Vitellius, and later on a host of others, 
whose imbecility was equalled only by their profligacy, were al- 
lowed to assume the Roman purple. Irene’s presence was 
commanding, her beauty exceptional, and the assembled sena- 
tors were at once smitten by her charms. It seemed by their 
conduct, indeed, that her case was already won, as they ex- 
pressed their admiration for her, both by words and gestures. 
But when it appeared that she was a Christian, and that her 
father had forfeited his property by disobeying the decrees 
of Nero to worship the Immortal gods, their pleasant looks 
were changed to stern ones ; and Irene was informed that she 
could recover her title only by giving up her connection with 
the “ Jewish sect of Christians,” as they learnedly designated 
the religion of Jesus Christ. There were among these men, 
however, a few who dissented from this judgment, but their 
voice was lost in the vote of the majority. 

The decision was read to her by a scribe. A stroke of the 
pen and the property was hers — only would she comply with 
the conditions 1 She stood there like one of the numerous 
statues which all about looked down upon the assembled 
K 


170 


lEENE OF COElNTH. 


Fathers. Some of them had been chiselled in the school of 
Praxiteles, in Corinth, her home. Their beauty appealed to her 
now, with a strange mute eloquence. The frescoes on the 
walls, the Graces, th^e Muses, beamed upon her blithely. They 
had been 'painted by the disciples of Apelles, a native of her 
mother’s island home. She flushed ; she trembled. Wealth 
smiles on her, and beckons to her to follow, back, back to her 
dear old homestead in sunny Peloponesus ; back to the land 
that blazes with memories of sages and heroes, rings with the 
laughter of poesy and music ; breathes with soul of undying, 
matchless Art. “ Be wise, child, ” whispered a venerable sil- 
ver-bearded man, who saw her hesitation. “ You are young, 
a long life is before you; be wise, accept a fortune.” It 
was hard to live in indigence, she who had been brought up in 
ease and luxury. The future was dark. “ Poverty is a crime,” 
whispered the conscript Father, uttering a truism, he thought. 
After all, she might deceive the Senators. They did not know 
her. Nobody knew her in Home. She could- deny her faith 
with her lips only — and still be faithful to her creed. “ Such 
wealth will be a blessing from the gods,” said the lawyer, who 
saw a. large fee in perspective. It would be a blessing. She 
could make the best of uses of it — help the needy, the sick. 
Ah ! Irene, your temptation is a dangerous one ; it looks like 
a prompting of Heaven. “ Yield, fair client,” said the lawyer, 
encouragingly. “ Burn the incense ; the State asks no more, 
and will not again trouble you. Think of once more visiting 
your home.” Irene was moved ; tears glistened in her eyes. 
Her home — aye, her home. 

It was hard to give up that ; and she saw it with all its sur- 
roundings and its history. For it is the history of one’s child- 
hood, of one’s associations, with a hut or a palace, that consti- 
tutes the home. She sees the house in which she was born — 
its rooms and furniture within, its architectural beauty without 
The garden — the beds of Narcissus and Cyclamens, which her 
mother loved to tend ; the olive tree at the left of the fountain, 
where the orioles built their nests, and the lilacs at the right, 
with whose flowers she used to wreathe her brow. And the 
mossy doon sheltered by the locust trees from the midday 
heat, where her mother often sat with her and Cyprian, and 
told them the tales that children love to hear. 0 Heaven ! It 


ROME ON FIRE. 


171 


was hard, hard not to revisit these scenes. Was ever mortal 
called on to give up so much 1 Such was Irene’s temptation. 
It did not last so long as it has taken to describe it. Thought 
travels fast. It was a hurricane, . a sudden, mad, surging at- 
tack that left its victim almost without power of resistance. 
Almost I 

Her hesitation, however, was misunderstood by the Senators. 
They took it to mean certain apostasy. Irene hesitated then, 
not to consider whether or not she would commit sin, but be- 
cause she was surprised by the mode of the attack, and had to 
reason against its subtle principles. She might have been de- 
ceived ; many others have been by specious arguments ; but 
the Divine light which she had asked for was near by to show 
her that even a mere outward denial of her faith would give 
irreparable scandal ; and the Divine aid was at hand to give 
her the victory over those natural and feminine impulses which 
shook her very soul. She felt that the Saviour’s command to 
break all earthly ties for His sake, was indeed to take up the 
cross and follow Him. But whither does He lead 1 The 
struggle was fierce while it lasted ; all her natural affections 
were on the side of the tempter ; but it was short, and 'she was 
victorious. She dried her tears and bade her lawyer answer 
for her. Then she quitted the place. He looked after 
her, and shook his head slowly a number of times. What she 
had said to him was this : “ I will not sell my soul.” “ Stub- 
born woman,” said he then, to the scribe. That is how it 
struck him. 

Some days after this as Irene was passing by the Temple of 
Venus she was accosted by one of the senators in the most 
affable manner. He was a man of middle age, to judge by his 
looks, with features that bore a kind and honest expression. 
Without waiting for a return of his salutation he proceeded to 
inform Irene that his son Tullius had seen her at the forum, 
and was profoundly impressed with her beauty; “and,” he 
continued, “ he would feel honored to be allowed to call on 
you.” The maid was not a little surprised by this wholly un- 
expected declaration. As, however, the senator was a respect- 
able man, she could not doubt his sincerity in making this pro- 
posal on behalf of his son. She replied, therefore, as politely 
as possible, that she was “ already engaged and could not con- 


172 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


sistently receive attention from his son.” But she favored him 
with her address, and accepted an invitation to dine with the 
senator in the near future. 

Irene had made inquiries on her first arrival concerning the 
Christian places of meeting. She at once made herself known 
to the priests, who found for her a proper abode. A family 
connected with the Imperial house of Flavius, of which St. Cle- 
ment, the third successor of St. Peter, was a member, admitted 
her to their society. They lived near the site where the Coli- 
seum was shortly afterwards built by Vespasian, and about a 
quarter of a mile from the old Church of St. Clement. She 
soon became acquainted with a large number of believers, some 
of them employed in the Emperor’s palace and others in the 
houses of senators; some very wealthy, some very needy. There 
were among them tradesmen, artists, sculptors and boatmen, 
sailors, bankers, philosophers, slaves, — in a word men of every 
rank and occupation. Yet all met under the same roof, and 
received the Holy Eucharist at the altar, like children of a com- 
mon Father. Her faith received additional strength by this 
proof of the unity of belief and discipline in Greece, in Asia, 
and in Rome. 

When she lost hope of recovering her property, she sold her 
jewellery and all unnecessary ornaments, so as to realize as 
much money as possible ; for it was clear she must have some 
means of support Although a considerable sum was obtained 
by the sale, she saw plainly that she had not enough to support 
her without some constant source of income. Her scheme of 
aiding the poor was, consequently, abandoned, and she confined 
her efforts in this direction to nursing the sick, as far as her 
duties as a teacher of the Greek language and literature to dis- 
tinguished pupils would allow. Within a year, her reputation 
had spread throughout the city, and she became as widely re- 
nowned and esteemed for her learning among the pagans as 
she was revered among the Christians for her disinterestedness 
and unassuming piety. Many were the invitations she received 
to banquets, to musical, and literary entertainments, public and 
private, from the most distinguished families in Rome ; but 
although she did not lead the life of a cloistered nun, she 
waived most of the honors sought to be conferred on her, and 
accepted those only which she could not refuse without em- 
barrassing her friends or slighting her benefactors. 


ROME ON FIRE. 


173 


The suitors, who came forward to plead for recognition, were 
many, and in every case their offers' received a polite but un- 
equivocal refusal. She was a mystery to the Christians and 
pagans alike, for to none, except the priests, had she made 
known the harrowing history of her betrothal and bereave- 
ment. 

When the news of the great coming event went abroad, 
and it was certain that a double Triumph would take place, 
Irene among the rest was inquisitive and anxious to see the 
pageant, and perhaps hopeful — who knows — that amdng the 
captives from Jerusalem, she might see some one she had 
known, if even it were but a slave. As the time drew near 
those about her noticed that she grew anxious, and when the 
name of Simon was once mentioned she became agitated, and 
blushed (deeply. All these signs of some hidden knowledge* 
were commented on by the female acquaintances of our heroine, 
with deep whisperings and much wise head-shaking, and in 
some instances even with suspicious hints that appearances 
often deceive and so on ; but though Irene understood their 
perplexity, and even fully interpreted their conduct, she took 
no means whatever of removing their impressions. Her ner- 
vousness at last increased so much that her sleep was deranged, 
and at night terrifying screams were heard in her apartments. 
On these occasions she dreamed that she was again in the 
hands of the tyrant, who was about to murder her. On the 
night before the Triumph, she saw her Julius and Cyprian 
coming to meet her, near the prison door of the Mamertine, 
when Simon and his son set- upon and killed them and then 
attacked her. Soon, however, her assailant was the Roman 
Emperor, who wished to take away her property ; and finally 
the fantastic jugglery of sleep transformed the Emperor into a 
ferocious tiger, which sprang at her throat. Her shrieks 
brought several of the inmates of the house to her room, who 
found her sitting on her bedside awake, but trembling violently, 
as if the dream had been a reality. She answered her visitors 
that she was well enough to be left alone, and they took their 
departure with strange misgivings about the cause of the sudden 
change in their young friend's manner. 

On the morrow, she set out early with some friends to choose 
a spot from which to obtain a good view of the display but 


174 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


this was no easy matter, as immense crowds thronged every 
vacant space where the procession was likely to pass. Few 
people have patience to remain in one place the greater part 
of a day, awaiting the arrival of a public pageant ; they prefer 
going to the point of its departure, and in some cases following 
behind it. Not so our ‘friends. They knew that a point at 
the end of the course would afford as good a view as any other, 
and besides, 'Would be less crowded. They sauntered along 
therefore, leisurely, through back streets and lanes, thus avoid- 
ing excessive crushing, and took up a position near the statue 
where Irene was detected by Simon. Long were the hours 
she lingered there, and strange were the fancies which whisked 
through her mind as she awaited the approach of the triumphal 
^cortege. At last it came in sight, and with it came an awful 
din, mixed sounds of musical instruments, of men’s voices, 
mocking, swearing, wailing or cheering, and boys’ voices, imi- 
tating in shrill treble, the deeper tones of the men. As it 
approached nearer, the crowd wedged closer and closer together, 
and only the drawn swords of the marshals who led the ad- 
vanced guard, could keep the people from rushing into the 
centre of the street. It became, at length, a difficult thing to 
keep one’s feet ; and in her efforts to do so, and to scan at the 
same time, the faces of the captives, Irene’s nervousness forsook 
her. As she looked up into the scared and downcast faces of 
the poor creatures who were made the butt of so much ridicule 
and contempt, her bosom heaved with pity and emotion, and 
the dread memories of all she passed through herself, while in 
the East, came back with awful freshness. 

It was just as her excitement had reached its highest pitch 
that the terrible Simon saw and struck at her ; and as she 
shrank back and dropped helpless in the arms of those behind 
her, the face of J ulius loomed up before her. She shrieked 
and swooned as if she had seen a spirit ; and as her compan- 
ions with extreme difficulty, strove to keep her from being 
trampled on, the crowd edged instantaneously into the vacant 
place, and thus hid her from the gaae of her lover. It was, in- 
deed, well for her that the crowd in her vicinity was so dense ; 
for had it not been so, she would have fallen to the ground 
and been trodden to death. As it was, she was simply borne 
along and back through the throng, until she reached an open 


ROME ON FIRE. 


175 


doorway. Here she recovered her senses very quickly, but the 
shock she received was enough to drive her insane. How like 
her dream too, was the whole proceeding 1 

She saw Julius, but she was firmly convinced that it was 
only his spirit, or that she had been the victim of an illusion. 
She therefore raised no temple of hope upon such a founda- 
tion, though it was as much beyond’ her power as it was con- 
trary to her desires to tear his sweet image from her soul. So 
she sat in a kind of reverie, half unconscious of the presence 
of her companions, who remained with her, preferring to sacri- 
fice their curiosity rather than leave her there alone. When 
at last the crowd began to melt away, and the fiery sun 
sank to rest behind the Esquiline, Irene had sufficiently 
recovered to set out for her home. Suddenly, an intense 
black cloud arose and spread with great rapidity over the 
whole city. A vivid flash lit up the streets for a moment, 
and then all was black again. * The women linked arms and 
walked closely together and with rapid steps, for fear of 
becoming separated in the gloom. Another flash revealed a 
crowd ahead and coming towards them. They had passed the 
Forum and were rounding the foot of the Palatine, when the 
threatening storm burst over them ; one of those violent tem- 
pests which visit Southern latitudes so frequently, coming on 
unexpectedly, and passing away in a few minutes. No doubt- 
ful mutterings of distant thunder prepares the traveller for the 
attack, but a deafening peal may surprise him, far from shelter, 
and the riven oak across his path may warn him how merciless 
is the thunderbolt. Near where the arch of Titus now stands, 
large quantities of stone and sand with other building mater- 
ials were piled up in immense heaps ; and when the sudden 
gusts of wind struck these, it scattered the lighter substances 
in every direction, blinding the eyes, and even endangering life. 
It was just here that torrents of rain began to pour down 
upon the luckless females, who, unable to make headway against 
the combined wind and showers of sand and rain, sought the 
inviting colonnade of the palace of the Caesars, till the sky 
would clear up. But the crowd whom they had seen ahead, 
was just upon them, a lot of half-drunken soldiers, returning 
after a carousal, to their camp. In an instant they seized the 
terrified girls, and forced them to walk back, or rather trot 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


I7(i 

along with them. They soon lost all trace one of the other ; 
and their screams were drowned by the howling of the storm 
and the bacchanal shouting of their captors. They had pro- 
ceeded only a short distance, when the rain ceased, the wind 
subsided, and the twinkling stars appeared in the cloudless 
sky. When they had repassed the Forum, two men suddenly 
made their appearance. One was Servius, the villain who had 
deceived Irene about the death of J ulius, the other was J oras 
the son of Simon, who had escaped from the hands of his 
jailer and was endeavoring to escape from the city. At the 
sight of an officer, the soldiers abandoned their prey and dis- 
persed in every direction. Two of the women had already got 
away from them, and Irene alone remained to be released. Both 
Joras and Servius though unknown to each other, recognised 
the girl on the instant, and rushed towards her. “ She is my 
wife,” said Joras in Greek, and seized the terrified Irene. 
Servius did not understand his tongue, and immediately aimed 
a blow at him. 

The girl, weakened by her previous rough treatment fell 
helpless between these two fierce men, who now began a deadly 
combat for her possession. The Roman had the advantage in 
arms, but though Joras had only a small poniard, his vast 
strength (almost equal to his father’s), made him a match for 
the fierce Roman. The latter’s arm was nerved by jealousy, 
and hatred of his rival J ulius ; while the former fought with 
the rash desperation of the disappointed lover. In a moment 
he had forgotten his desire to escape, but even if he had time 
to deliberate, he would sacrifice a hundred lives in order to 
secure Irene. As these two men confronted each other, their 
faces ashy, their teeth set, and their eyes glaring like those of 
a savage beast, their passions rising with each successive blow 
or parry, and their thrusts growing momentarily more and 
more rapid and deadly, while the innocent object of their 
bloody strife lay swooning at their feet, the pale stars silently 
watching the issue of their combat, and the clash of the mur- 
derous steel, the only sound that answered the hooting of an 
owl in a niche of the adjacent Forum, they formed a picture 
such as few have seen, and none who did have e’er forgotten. 

Many were the wounds both received, and blood flowed 
profusely upon the street, making their footing doubly inse- 


ROME ON FIRE. 


177 


cure, on a pavement already slippery after the recent rain. 
The terrible mental strain they were enduring, as well as their 
extraordinary physical exertion, soon produced their effects, 
and the heavy breathing showed that the end was very near. 
By a dexterous parry, Joras averted a well-aimed blow of. his 
adversary, who rushed beyond him, carried forward by the 
combined weight of his body and the force of the stroke. In 
an instant the latter had wheeled around and’ stood prepared 
for the attack of the Jew, who struck downwards with his 
short weapon at him, with the full strength of his gigantic 
body. The Roman’s defence was vain, and he fell crushed by 
the superior weight of his adversary. The keen blade, how- 
, ever, was an inch wide of its aim, and was broken on his 
breastplate. At this moment Irene recovered consciousness, 
and saw both men on the ground, but she was too dazed to 
think of fleeing. Servius stunned for an instant, now strug- 
gled to get from under his enemy, who lay motionless across 
him. The force of his blow had caused him to lose his foot- 
ing, and he was thrown with his forehead upon the hard pave- 
ment. The victory was now in the Roman’s hands ; and as 
he placed his foot upon the body of Joras, to pierce his throat 
with his sword, a body of horsemen rode up to the spot. 



CHAPTER XVII. 

WAS IT IRENE ? 

“ Intolerabilius nihil est quam femina dives.”— Juv. 

“ Of all life’s various curses, few so great 
As woman’s daring backed by real estate.” — Badham’s Translation. 

i ' N Rome, about midway between the .^Elian bridge (now 
called the Ponte St. Angelo), and the new Suspension 
Bridge near the Church of St. Giovanni dei Fiorentini, 
the traveller can see, at low water, a part of the ruins of the 
Pons TriumpTialis, a work which was new in the lifetime of 
the persons with whom our story deals. On a lovely May 
morning, when the sun was already high in the heavens, 
crowds might be seen wending their way across this convenient 
highway, towards the Vatican Mount, evidently bent on wit- 
nessing the gladiatorial combats and other sports in the Circus 
of Caligula. In the reign of Nero many heroic Christians were 
exposed to the lions in this theater, and rendered the soil of 
its arena as sacred by the profusion of their blood, as that of 
the famous Coliseum became some years later, for a similar 
reason. Though not so vast as the Coliseum nor so beautiful 
in an architectural sense, this great work, finished by Nero, 
was still very large. Its walls were lofty, and the seats for the 
accommodation of the people were arranged in tiers, one above 
the other, so as to afford a good view to those farthest removed 
from the ring. 

The sports were this day on an extensive scale, as . a multi- 
tude of men from among the captive soldiers of Simon were 
found able, and even anxious, to fight for prizes, or even amuse- 
ment. Some fought with spears only, others with swords only, 
while one species of combat seemed to be particularly attractive, 


WAS IT IRENE? 


179 


wherein the parties were armed with a dagger and a net fas- 
tened op the end of a pole. After the gladiators came the 
beast-fighters, who were placed in the ring unarmed, or having 
but a small knife, with which to defend themselves against a 
wild bear, a panther or a lion. 

Among the gladiators were the two Jews who had been 
taken prisoners by Julius, Gad, the big clumsy giant and Ben, 
the supple dwarf ; but as soon as they appeared, the whole as- 
sembly burst out into boisterous laughter. They would no 
doubt enjoy the murder of one or both captives ; but even the 
hard-hearted Eoman mob deemed such a contest unequal and 
unfair. So they shouted, “ Give the big one to a panther.” 
“ Yes, to the panther,” reverberated the cry from a score thous- 
and throats. When the clamor had subsided, and the master 
of the games was explaining that these two were to fight to 
settle a wager made in Jerusalem, some one with a shrill trem- 
ulous voice, which reached every corner of the theater, yelled, 
“ Give the little fellow to a mouse.” It was useless to endea- 
vor to stem the torrent of hilarity which greeted this sally. 
Men jumped upon the benches and cheered, and threw up their 
hats, women screamed with delight, and beat their fans to- 
gether, and boys whistled and blew on shrill pipes to the infi-' 
nite annoyance and chagrin of the master of the entertainments, 
who was obliged, in obedience to the popular wish to change 
his programme and recast the sport. The large man was shortly 
after placed in the arena with a lion. This time he was greeted 
with the usual cheer, with which the people were wont to en- 
courage the victims of this brutal -amusement. The Jew was 
armed with a short sword, his only weapon of defence against 
the hungry brute which was to make of him his food. As soon 
as the lion was let Jioose, it sprang cat-like into the ring, ran 
about roaring and lashing the railing with its long brush-tip- 
ped tail. The moment it caught sight of its victim, it stopped 
short, ceased roaring, and then settling down into a half-sitting 
posture began slowly approaching him. When within five or 
six feet of him, it gathered itself for the spring ; and after 
placing its enormous fore and hind paws close together, eyeing 
him cautiously the while, and partially opening and shutting 
its jaws with a rapid convulsive movement, it pounced upon 
and seized him by the left shoulder. He was thrown back- 


180 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


wards by the shock, but was quick enough in his defence to 
plunge his blade into the body of the lion just behind the left 
fore leg. Both fell together and rolled over two or three times, 
to the morbid delight of the almost frenzied spectators. Then 
the lion gave up its hold on the man’s shoulder and seized him 
by the throat. Again the blade entered its body and broke 
off close at the hilt. It was the aimless blow of a desperate 
and dying man; but it caused the beast to relax its hold. 
With a terrific and prolonged howl, it bit at the broken sword 
in its side, and then fell exhausted beside its bleeding victim. 
A bell was sounded, and the scavengers came upon the scene 
to remove the corpses. 

Julius was present near the raised platform on which Titus 
and some members of the Imperial family sat. He was there in 
obedience to duty ; but it was easy to see that his heart was 
elsewhere. His swollen and blood-shot eyes, strong evidence 
of a sleepless night, might lead those unaware of the real cause 
to remark that he had given himself up to a life of dissipation. 
His first impulse upon hearing of the presumptive fate of Irene 
was to drown his grief in the wine cup ; even suicide seemed 
to have a charm for him. He had learned from the writings 
of the Stoics that it was a courageous apt to take one’s own 
life. But his reason repelled this unnatural doctrine, . and the 
few ideas of Christian morality which he had picked up in his 
conversations with Irene, caused him to regard self-murder as 
an act of cowardice, a shrinking from the ills of one’s unlucky 
fate. As he passed over the Triumphal Bridge that morning 
at the head of the guards, he looked down into the muddy 
and quick-running river. It had a strange fascination for 
him, and the temptation to rush over into its waters was 
great ; but the thought of Irene, whose shade, he said, would 
reprove him, kept bim back. So, averting his eyes, he 
pushed on, and looked fixedly at the opposite shore, lest the 
temptation should, by another glance, return to harass him. 
During the games he stood in one position, and hardly ever 
raised his eyes to see what was going on, even when the uproar 
was at its loudest. 

Just as the carcase of the dead lion was taken from the 
arena, a little boy dressed like a page, and wearing a livery 
he well knew, but failed, at the moment, to recognise, handed 


WAS IT IRENE? 


181 


him a scented note without a seal. The absence of the seal 
showed that the note was written on the grounds. Mechani- 
cally J ulius opened it and read its contents. A blush mounted 
to his cheeks, as he proceeded, and when he had finished read- 
ing, he looked up in the direction -indicated in the note. It 
read : — Dearest Julius , — It makes me happy to let my eyes 
rest once more on your long-absent countenance. Look to- 
wards the north, tenth bench from the arena, first division. 
Come and dine with me to-night. Yours ever, Pontia.” “ My 
mistress must have an answer,” said the page, as Julius kept 
looking towards the north side of the circus. “ Yes, yes,” said 
Julius carelessly ; and at the same moment he caught the eyes 
of the lady who was seated on the tenth bench, first division. 
She felt that he had seen her, and she waved her handkerchief as 
a salute. Perplexed, he returned the salute, and turning about, 
he saw the boy already on his way back to report an affirma- 
tive answer to Pontia. But Julius did not mean to accept the 
invitation, at least not on that day ; and he was now at a loss 
how to account for his conduct The boy took the words 
“Yes, yes,” which Julius had uttered without attaching any 
distinct meaning to them, as an answer for his piistress, and 
would, doubtless, deliver it accurately to her. There was no 
escape, therefore, and philosopher that he was, he suppressed 
his displeasure, and made up his mind to dine that evening 
with the wealthy Pontia. Promptly at eight o’clock, the usual 
hour for dinner at her mansion (as Julius knew from his for- 
mer acquaintance X though, in her haste, Pontia forgot to men- 
tion the hour in the note, Julius might be seen near the gar- 
dens of Lucullus, approachiiig a large mansion built entirely 
of Aventine, and finished with the rich and showy ornamenta- 
tion peculiar to the Corinthian order of architecture. The rich 
lace curtains of- Syrian manufacture were drawn back from the 
windows on the ground floor, thus giving a good view of the 
gilded cornices and frescoed walls, and of the ebony furniture 
within, on whose polished surfaces the lights from a dozen 
gilded candelabra depending from the ceiling were reflected 
and multiplied indefinitely. Marble steps led to the vestibule, 
within which on either hand were placed large bronze urns, 
smiling with deliciously flavored flowers and creeping vines, 
and here were stationed the slaves who conducted the guests 
to the hall within. 


182 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


As Julius passed the threshold the sweet sounds of a 
lute filled his ears with harmony, while the fragrant odors 
of fresh flowers, and scented cassolettes greeted his senses 
with a grateful salutation. Advancing into the atrium, the 
lute ceased to sound, and after a moment’s pause the lady 
Pontia advanced to meet the young soldier. Her greeting was 
seemingly hearty; but as Julius bowed and kissed her ex- 
tended hand, she felt that his- movements were constrained, 
and that their relations were not, at least on his part, what 
they had formerly been. Nevertheless a feigned warmth, 
which was not felt, established itself at once between them, 
as they walked arm in arm, back and forth, past the spouting 
fountain, and discussed the news of the day in the city. 

Pontia was* one of the rich women of Pome. Her father 
was a senator, who had accumulated vast wealth, and dying 
without male issue, had left it all to his two daughters. Fame 
had it, Pontia had got rid of her sister. Some said she had 
poisoned her, others, that she had her strangled ; but money 
diverted the suspicions of any too zealous official, while fear of 
a powerful woman’s anger kept lesser people silent. Julius 
had been introduced to this woman a year before his departure 
for the East under Vespasian, and during that time he had 
visited her in company with other officers ; but rarely alone, 
although he plainly perceived her preferences were for himself. 
Julius shrank inwardly from her, whose reputation was 
tarnished with the suspicion of crime ; and it was only the 
fashion of the day, and the fact that she was not thought less 
of in society, that obliged him to accept her invitations. He 
was glad, therefore, when the order came to depart for Asia 
for he felt that she was striving to weave a web about him 
which he found it difficult to avoid. 

Pontia was dressed for the evening in such costly apparel as, 
to rival the Empress herself, and although she was to some ex- 
tent “ made up,” she had no need of using “ Popp»an oils ” or 
other cosmetics to beautify her complexion which was particu- 
larly fair, and not yet touched by age. Julius felt that she 
wifehed to commence her Circean work once more ; and at this 
time, of all others, he was least prepared to give it any counte- 
nance. Although he had blundered into this visit he would 
retreat as speedily as possible. “ I am not much in the habit 


WAS IT IRENE ? 


183 


of visiting now ” said he at last, when an opportunity offered. 
“ Society and I have' become strangers, and my books are my 
6nly companions. In fact,’' he continued, “ I am like a fish .out 
of water in ladies’ society so little have I seen of it these three 
years.” “ But surely,” said Pontia, chidingly, “ you cannot 
long remain so. Of course,” she added, with a sigh, and 
then dropped her voice to a sympathetic depth and looked at 
the floor, “ your loss is an exceptionally great one. Start not, 
dearest Julius, I alone perhaps in all Rome know that you 
loved Irene.” Here she laid her head on his shoulder and shed 
a tear of deep deceit. “ Oh what an end I” and Pontia sobbed 
aloud. “ Oh Pontia,” said the soldier, whose whole being was 
burning with fever heat at the discovery of the extent of her 
knowledge, “ do not weep, my spirit is broken and my heart, 
too ; but you are too good, too sympathetic to thus suffer on 
account of my afflictions.” In a moment his opinion of Pontia 
had changed. He began to doubt whether she was really so 
wicked as report had made her, and still his knowledge of hu- 
man nature kept him on his guard. Then he was not sure how 
much of his intrigue she knew of ; but he resolved to be candid 
and to try to learn what she really knew of Irene. “ The past,” 
said he, “ is gone, and our duty is to forget it,” — “ and seek a 
happier future,” added Pontia, smiling through her tears. Julius 
was silent. He might have embraced her at that moment and 
called her his own. He knew this, and he felt that she would 
be his willing captive, but he was true to his manhood and the 
sweet memory of his Irene. 

She saw in a moment that she had not won him yet ; so with 
exquisite tact she resumed the subject which she believed would 
bring her nearest to him. “ I loved Irene,” she began, “ the 
moment I saw her, so beautiful, so fair, so learned, so pious. 
If all those Jews were like her I should myself become a Chris- 
tian.” This eulogy on his beloved caused Julius to believe that 
Pontia was, at least, a stranger to jealousy. “ A strange sect 
those Christians,” he replied ; and before he could say more a 
bell announced that dinner was served. Julius was the only 
guest, consequently the same subject of conversation was pur- 
sued throughout the meal. Julius was almost ascetic in his 
abstemiousness, but he made a show of eating something, while 
he ministered with his former adroitness to the wants of his 


184 


IRENE OP CORINTH. 


fair hostess. As the meal went on he heard such scraps of 
Irene’s history as had come before the public. Pontia had often 
met her in social circles, and had even taken some lessons from' 
her in music ; but it was only on the day before that she had 
learned of her relations to J ulius. It happened in this way. 
There was a common' report in the army that J ulius was the 
accepted suitor of the notorious Pontia. This report was so 
widely believed that the visits of J ulius to Irene, when she and 
her father were in the Roman camp, were looked upon as flirta- 
tions, and he was accordingly threatened with her just ire by 
his comrades as often as they felt in jesting humor. As soon 
as the army had arrived at Rome from the East, Servius who, 
knew nothing of Irene’s presence in the city, made inquiries 
about Pontia, and having learned where she lived, called on her 
and made known, in the most exaggerated manner possible, 
Julius’ relations with the Christian beauty. Hereby a double 
purpose was served. Servius had intended to injure Julius by 
diverting from him the love of a rich and powerful woman, but 
he only inflamed it the more. On the other hand, Pontia, who 
identified the Irene of her acquaintance with the one described 
by Servius, resolved to injure her, and if possible get rid of a for- 
midable rival. In the jealousy of Pontia then, Servius found 
a means of getting possession of Irene, and through his envy 
towards Julius, Pontia found in him a ready tool to destroy 
her. She gave Servius, to this end, a considerable sum of 
money to carry off Irene, and bring her, dead or alive, into her 
power, and the plot was to be carried out on the very night of 
the Triumph. Could Julius have but known, while he supped 
with the infamous Pontia, that his beloved was under the same 
roof as himself, a victim of her fiendish jealousy, who can say 
what his injured soul would have prompted him to do 1 Almost 
certain is it that he would have taken the life of the murderess 
of his betrothed. But he was ignorant of the plot and he 
parted with Pontia that night with a sense of gratitude, and 
almost ashamed that he should have ever suspected her virtue. 
He had learned nothing important of the life of Irene, though 
the mention of her name gave him* some consolation ; and of 
her death — well, what he heard was only a repetition of what 
Servius had already reported : that J oras had murdered her 
before his recapture, and that her body was carried away by 
some women who said they were her friends. 


WAS IT IRENE? 


185 


Servius alone knew that the Jew’s victim was Irene ; “ and 
without suspecting that I knew her too,” said Pontia, “ he’ re- 
lated the story of her death. I cautioned him to reveal her 
fate to no one else lest you should be more deeply wounded.” 

It was almost midnight of the day of the great Triumph 
when Servius returned to the camp. He was haggard-looking 
and bleeding ; his clothes were torn, and his armor soiled and 
battered. He went to his quarters immediately, and sent a 
messenger to Julius, whom he prayed to come and see him 
quickly. The messenger found Julius reading Plato, whose 
doctrine on the immortality of the soul began to have a real 
charm for him. He was resolved to make every possible in- 
quiry for his betrothed, whom he had caught sight of that 
morning, in order to discover her abode or to gain some infor- 
mation. concerning her. As he had no special love for this fel- 
low, Servius, who had of late been promoted for bravery, and 
as he had good reason to surmise that Servius reciprocated the 
ill feeling, he could not at all divine the reason of the summons. 
He hesitated for a while, then locked up his book, and putting 
ou his cloak and cap, be issued forth unarmed. As he went 
along towards the tent of the officer, his curiosity gave way to 
a persistent foreboding of ill which increased by degrees to 
positive alarm. Involuntarily he quickened his pace until near 
the canvas dwelling, when becoming aware of his agitation, he 
paused to allow it to subside. At length he entered and saluted, 
somewhat formally, the occupant, who was expecting the com- 
ing of a physician to dress his wounds. Seeing that the man 
was in pain Julius relaxed his rigid manner, and asked the 
recumbent sufferer how he had received his wounds, at the 
same time, offering to place a bolster under his head. Far from 
exciting in him generous thoughts, the kind offer of Julius 
only deepened this man’s hatred ; he declined to be assisted, 
and motioned to his curious visitor to be seated. There were 
only a pile of blankets and a provision sack in the camp, to 
afford sitting room, so with that deference which good manners 
make one show to the sick, Julius sat down on the blankets, 
and asked mildly why he had been sent for. “ I am sorely 
wounded,” replied Servius, “ and I fear I may not live long ; and 
you are interested in my fate.” This was mysterious language, 
but Julius silently waited for further developments. “ Joras, 
L 


18G 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


you know, escaped from his guards,’' Servius went on to say, 
“and I met him alone, and fought him single-handed.’.’ 

“ Indeed,” said Julius, rather enviously. “ The guards came up 
just as he fell stunned,” continued Servius, “ and took him off 
to the Mamertine.” He hesitated ; he wished to sharpen his 
arrow well. “ It was for your sake I attacked him,” said he, 
as carelessly as he could. “ For my sake,” echoed Julius, whose 
brow lowered. “ The man is insane,” he thought. “ He had 
a partner who seemed not to be an unwilling one,” Servius con- 
tinued in the same tone. “ I knew that if you had been in my 
place you would have killed him ; therefore, I attacked him.” 
Julius sprang to his feet. “ What do you mean ? ” he gasped ; 

“ speak man ; explain your enigmas — who 1 ” “ When he saw 
that he was attacked he stabbed her to the heart, and we fought 
over her corpse.” “ It was ” — “ Irene,” replied the other, in a 
sepulchral tone. “ Liar, villain,” screamed Julius, as he grasped 
for the sword which he had fortunately left behind him. “ You ^ 
have your revenge ; I could kill you ; but dog, you are too un- 
worthy of an honest man’s steel. Yet, yet,” he continued, as he 
strode within the narrow limits of the canvas, and clasped his 
head with both hands, “ I saw her to-day and it may be true ; 
but bird of evil omen,” he went on, turning fiercely towards the 
prostrate Servius, “ you have belied the purest of women and, 
if you ever rise from that pallet you shall answer the calumny 
with naked steel. Oh, Irene, Irene,” he cried, “ I shall yet 
meet you ; it is not true, it cannot be.” As he said this, Ser- 
vius, for whose wounds the agonies of Julius were' like a sooth- 
ing balm, stretched out his hand and said with perfect coolness, 

“ Here.” Julius turned and beheld the extended hand. It con- 
tained a locket which he at once recognized, a gift to his be- 
trothed, containing a miniature portrait of himself and of her. 
He seized it and pressed it to his lips, then to his breast, and 
stood in silent sorrow dwelling upon the past. His grief had 
assumed the character which most afflicts and wears the soul, 
a tearless, wordless crucifixion. The surgeon came at last 
and interrupted his gloomy meditation, and as he turned to 
leave, Servius hurled after him this last poisoned shaft : “ Some 
•women who said they knew Irene, took away her body.” 
Julius heard the words, but for a long time did not seem to 
comprehend them. When he did he knew that the last chance 


WAS IT IRENE ? 


187 


of ever seeing her, alive or dead, was lost. All was lost, his 
heaven was lost, and he had no ambition now in life. His 
heaven was his re-union some day with Irene. 

As the unfortunate man went aimlessly along, he found 
the air hot and oppressive, though it was really chilly ; and 
his brain seemed to be bursting through his skull : and he 
wished and longed for water, water to bathe his burning tem- 
ples, water to plunge into, water to drown in and follow his 
beloved to the land of shades and darkness. To the guard 
who demanded the password he answered mechanically ; but 
the challenge had the effect of causing him to see that . he 
was going away from, instead of towards his tent. He changed 
his direction thereupon and soon came to it, but he could not 
enter. He remained at the entrance, his soul wrapped in the 
deepest gloom of melancholy, and with but one confused idea 
in his mind, to avenge a wrong he had suffered ; but how, or 
on whom he did not, could not, know. Then he swore in the 
bitterness of his soul, and shook his fist at the few stars that 
blinked innocently above him ; and finally, throwing himself 
on the ground, he lay there for hours in a state bordering on 
delirium, and rose up only when the rising sun shed its first- 
born beams into his swollen and grimy countenance. 

Quickly he set off for the Mamertine, in order, if possible, 
to be the executioner of his beloved Irene’s assassin ; but he 
was late ; Joras was already numbered among the dead. Is 
it any wonder he would look haggard and dissipated, as he 
stood on duty at the Circus 1 or is it to be wondered at that 
he should act so like a maniac, when his belief in immortality 
was not yet secure 1 

A week after this date, Julius received a sealed letter from 
a young slave, and as he was breaking the seal, he was notified 
that the Emp«ror wished to see him forthwith. The half- 
opened letter wa:: thrust into his pouch unread, and with the 
alacrity characteristic of Roman discipline, he hurried on to 
the Caesar’s palace, to receive his orders. 



CHAPTER XVIII. 

ALMOST A MURDER. 

“ Oh, who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried. 

And danced in triumph o’er the waters wide, 

The exulting sense— the pulse’s maddening play, 

That thriUs the wanderer of that trackless way.” 

— The Corsair. — Canto 1. 

S FEW days of pleasant sailing and moderate play of the 
oars, brought the vessel in which Cyprian had set sail in 
view of a picturesque land, through which a double chain 
of mountains, clad with impenetrable forest, ran in almost par- 
allel lines. Far in the interior stood a lone sentinel almost eight 
thousand feet high, a giant among its fellows, whose snow-cap- 
ped summit shone with dazzling splendor in the rays of a 
tropical sun. This was Mount Ida, on which, according to 
the Greek mythology, gods had been bred, and gods had held 
their courts. 

The land he was approaching was Crete, whose quondam 
king Idomeneus, was sung by the ancient bard, who pictured 
Ilium’s fall. As the Hyads at this date arose with the sun, 
the sailors resolved to go no further till the rainy season would 
pass ; so, sailing along the fertile northern shore of the island, 
they made for the port of Cydonia. Anchoring here, they en- 
tered the city, and spent their time as sailors, the world over, 
have ever done, and will continue to do till the seas dry up and 
cancel their engagements. A few times only Cyprian left the 
ship, and when he did so, he found that there were people on 
this lovely island who worshipped the name of Christ. “ No,” 
said a fisherman to him, in answer to a question : “ we are 
not such fools as to believe in gods who were formerly men. 
The priests taught our fathers so much that was false and 
foolish, that they at length gave up all faith in gods. Even 


ALMOST A MURDER. 


189 


common people like ourselves, who cannot read, try to get 
others who can, to read to them the godless books of Lucian. 
We now believe in Jesus Christ, who was preached to us by 
the disciples of his Apostles, and our numbers are spreading.'' 
“ Did the persecutions fall heavily on you here ? ” Cyprian 
asked. “ No,” replied the fisherman ; “ the Emperor did not 
heed us poor fishers ; but in the city there were some so happy 
as to lay down their lives for the Gospel.” 

Although the frequent rain obscured the view, and rendered 
navigation a trifle dangerous, the wind did not rise, but re- 
mained favorable, and the master of the ship decided to set out 
without losing any more time. While they pushed out from 
the shore in a small boat, one of the men whose legs were 
hanging out over the gunwale and touching the water, was 
bitten by .some kind of a fish that tried to carry him oflf bodily. 
The pain was so great as to cause him to -swoon away, and in 
this condition he was brought aboard the ship. Soon the bit- 
ten limb swelled to an farming size, and the inflammation 
extended into the body. The loss of this man might have 
been a calamity, for by some accident on shore the crew was 
already short. The master promised the god of the sea, Nep- 
tune, a great sacrifice, for the restoration of the young sailbr. 
But his prayers were of no use, and Cyprian, seeing an occa- 
sion to preach the Gospel, laid his hand upon the sufferer, and 
healed him in the name of the Redeemer. The superstitious 
seamen looked upon him, therefore, as a god and wished to adore 
him then and there, but Cyprian correcting them, explained 
the doctrines of Christ, and exhorted them to believe in Him 
who could heal the sick and raise the dead to life by His infiui^p 
power. The master was at once converted, and most of the 
others consented to be baptized. In due course they arrived 
in Alexandria, and Cyprian presented himself to the Bishop of 
that city, the successor of St. Mark. He told him that he had 
found the Faith in Crete, and related what had occurred on the 
vessel. The holy man rejoiced, and having introduced the 
young priest to his fellow-laborers in the Lord's -Vineyard, di- 
rected them to show him the part of the city in which he might 
work henceforth. “ Tell us about the Evangelist,” said one, a 
deacon, anxious to hear something new of the beloved disciple. 
Cyprian entertained them for a long time, relating incidents 


190 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


and anecdotes of the Apostle’s life and labors, of liis tender care 
of the blessed mother pf the Lord, and of his wonderful influ- 
ence over all who came in his way. “ Strange,” said another, 

“ that he should outlive all his fellow-apostles, even the chief 
himself, St. Peter.” “ Yes,” said Cyprian in reply, “and he 
often expressed his holy jealousy of this Apostle who was so 
highly favored as to die as the Lord did, nailed to a cross. 
But,” he would say, “ I too shall suffer for the Lord, though 
I do not deserve such an honor. As Rome saw the blood of 
Peter and of Paul flow, so it shall witness my poor confession,” 
“ Another persecution will come upon us then,” said another 
priest, whose face and hands bore numerous scars, and whose 
fingers were all absent, ^having been cut off during the first 
great persecution. “ Yes,” said several in chorus, “ the Evan- 
gelist is also a prophet.” ‘f Let us pray that we may be able 
to bear it,” said the. priest who had the marks of his past suf- 
fering. “Amen,” cried all. “ May our Lord keep our flocks from 
apostacy,” they piously added. Cypfian found among the con- 
verts to Christianity, persons of almost every trade and occupa- 
tion. At the Agapce or feasts where the Holy Eucharist was dis- 
pensed, he met men of letters who had read and studied all the 
philosophic opinions extant. Side by side, with these learned 
men were slaves white and black, most of whom did not know 
how to read, nor how to write. It was in one word here just as 
iu Greece and in Asia Minor*; the vocation of Christians was 
given to the lowly and the mighty alike ; and at God’s altar 
all were brothers and sisters — none were slaves or masters. 
At its very outset, the religion of Jesus attacked two evils, 
which, at that epoch, were at the bottom of many others. The 
pagan world had reduced the slave to a condition little above 
the brutes ; and woman to a moral depth little above the slave. 
Absolute power of life and death was in the hands of the slave- 
holder, who looked upon his slaves as his property, disposable 
at his will. He had paid for his slave, as he had paid for his 
cow or his goat ; and who would dare to restrict his power 
over the former ? The slaves were men, and had reason. So 
much the better ; he could command their intelligent work ; 
but if his horses could reason he would prefer them by all 
means ; they were so much stronger than the human slave. 
Rarely it struck a pagan that humanity w'as a virtue to be 


ALMOST A MURDER. 


191 


practised toward a slave ; and when he manumitted one, that 
is, freed him, it was generally on account of some great service 
rendered by him. It was to be expected, under such* a condi- 
tion of things, that slaves would so fall in self-respect, as to be- 
lieve themselves inferior to freemen, no matter how deficient 
the latter might be in mental or corporal faculties. Want of 
education cramped their intellect, and the constant repetition 
in theory and practice of the doctrine,, that the slave was a 
chattel, came to be regarded by them as a sort of Divine reve- 
lation, which they dared not so much as question. Although 
the Gospel preached by the Apostles did not tend directly to 
strangle the monster, it had indirectly this very effect. To tell 
the slave at that time, “ You are your master’s equal,” would 
have quite disrupted society. True, the Church would have 
gained rapidly in numbers ; for every slave in the world would, 
perhaps, enlist under its banners. But war would be the result, 
a merciless war between intelligence and wealth on the weaker 
side, at least as regards numbers, and millions of ignorant and 
brutalized men on the other. After a war of this kind, these 
illiterate slaves would turn upon and slaughter each other, 
and the stronger would reduce the others to slavery ; and thus 
the evil, far from being rooted out, “would be intensified. 
The method followed by the Church was both just and pru- 
dent, and indirectly produced the much desired result. She 
taught the slave, who came to her, to respect his master as 
his employer, who fed and provided for him, and, consequently, 
could justly claim at least a portion of his labor. If he 
claimed more, it would be better to bear the burden, than to 
engage in a struggle that would be either hopeless or,ruinous, 
to shake ofi* the yoke. Besides, she taught him that whatever 
unjust treatment he would receive at the hands of the ungodly 
in this life, would be avenged sooner or later ; that his patience 
would purchase in the next life a treasure for the sufferer. 
Thus she put the most effectual checks on premature rebellion ; 
and, even from a purely rational point of view, gave- the slave 
a means of extracting comfort from his very afflictions. Of 
course she told him that he was his master’s equal before 
God, and, therefore, not obliged to obey him in things unlaw- 
ful. The contention of Gibbon, that the doctrine of equality 
brought many slaves into the ranks of the first Christians is, 


192 


IRENE OF CORINTH, 


therefore, without foundation ; for far from elating the slave, 
the Church taught him humility and obedience, in fact, exacted 
these ; and as far as this world was concerned, left him just 
where he was before. It was chiefly, however, by the effect of 
the Gospel teaching on the slave-holders that emancipation 
came alwut. These were taught to regard their slaves as 
human beings who had the same Heavenly Father as them- 
selves, and the same Redeemer, Jesus Christ. The Gospel 
made the slave-holder, therefore, look upon his slaves as his 
brethren in Christ, who, by stress of circumstances, were 
placed in a position socially lower than that in which he him- 
self moved. To treat his slaves humanely was not a recom- 
mendation simply ; it was a duty. 

At the very dawn of his conversion the neophyte was in- 
structed in the Divine precept of loving all men as himself, the 
slave and the freeman alike ; but as the deep meaning of this 
precept needs time and reflection to be fully grasped, it is easy 
to perceive that the slave-holding convert would begin to fulfil 
it, by treating his slaves kindly ; and as his practice of Christ- 
ianity progressed towards perfection, he might end by manu- 
mitting all, or a number of them. It may be very safe to 
affirm, that other things being equal, for one slave who would 
be attracted to the Church by the doctrine of the equality of 
all men, ten slave-holders would be repelled from it by a 
dogma so opposed to their pride, their education and all their 
social habits. By degrees, however, the Gospel overcame the 
proud spirit which kept so many men below their native dig- 
nity ; and when society began to reorganize after the fall of the 
Western .Empire of the Romans, slavery was unknown among 
peoples whom Christianity moulded into a higher civilization. 
Cyprian often spoke to crowds of people in the markets and 
public parks. He made many converts among the students of 
philosophy, and men of letters, who would never have so much 
as listened to the preaching of the Gospel had not the polished 
eloquence of the speaker attracted their attention. Once, as he 
was surrounded by a large number of these educated men, a 
pagan priest, who happened to be passing, pushed his way 
through the crowd and confronted the speaker. Cyprian went 
on- quietly with his discourse on the unity of the Godhead ; and 
having completed his argument he drew the attention of the’ 


ALMOST A. MURDER. 


193 


audience to the fact that there were priests in every land, and 
among every known people. “ This,'* he said, “ is a proof that 
the religious sentiment is not merely a result of instruction, 
which may be forgotten and lost sight of again ; but a principle 
planted in every man’s soul by the Deity, which, though ca- 
pable of defacement and distortion, never can die out entirely. 
Men’s fears, you may say, keep the sentiment alive ; but whence 
are those fears 1 Priests could not have conjured them into ex- 
istence ; they existed before priests, and were the parent of a 
priesthood. It is then evident, that a belief in Divinity of 
some kind was universal. But,” he continue4, “the nu- 
merous gods worshipped by different peoples are manifestly 
corruptions of the original idea of one God. Their differences 
prove them unreal and counterfeit.; but they are so only be- 
cause a real and genuine God exists, whom they have variously 
and in most cases ludicrously travestied. The fact, then, that 
various priesthoods and worships are in vogue, far from dis- 
proving, — furnish us with an additional proof of the existence 
of God. No more could two Gods exist than that one God 
could be, and not be at the same time, as you already under- 
stand, and are quite prepared to believe.” The pagan priest 
who had been thus far carried away by the arguments of the 
young Christian, now returned to his plan of attack: but afraid 
to face the Christian priest in manful argument, he first had 
recourse to prejudice. 

“Men of Alexandria,” he began, “you are the sons of gen- 
erations without number, who have worshipped the gods of 
our country. The sect whose God this man would h^ave us 
adore, is hostile to us, and to the whole world. The Israel- 
llites stole our fathers’ property and migrated into Palestine, 
encouraged by their God ; and now they cpme back to mock us 
and to destroy the gods who made of us the most civilized 
people on earth. This man calls his sect Christian, because he 
believes that a certain Christ, who was put to death for robbery 
is God. How absurd! But this Christ was a Jew, and all 
who follow his doctrine are Jews.” Here the mischievous elo- 
quence of the priest worked up his own anger to fever heat, 
and he gesticulated wildly with his arms, and raised himself 
on his toes in his mad desire to vanquish his foe. But the au- 
dience was an enlightened one, and not easily led away with 


194> 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


chaff. He saw this ; and with the quick perception begotten of 
cunning, he left off his wrathful harangue, and addressed the 
Christian priest in this manner : “ Well ! Priest of the only true 
God, why did not your God stand by your great city and pro- 
tect it against its enemies. Jerusalem, the city of your people, 
is in ruins ; how do you intend to gain followers, now that the 
world sees your God’s great weakness 1 ” “ Fellow men,” re- 

plied Cyprian, “ you are versed in history, and you know that 
the migration this priest has alluded to, was but the lawful 
throwing off by the Jews of a life of bondage. You have read 
the authentic history of Moses, and are, I am sure, convinced 
that these people deserved some compensation from their cruel 
task-masters.” A nod of assent from the majority of the stu- 
dents assured Cyprian of the influence he was w'inning ; and he 
was about to proceed, when the pagan priest interrupted him. 
“ Your Moses learned all he knew from us,” said he, contemp- 
tuously, “ he would have perished in the sedges, or would have 
been a brickmaker like his brethren, if he had not been cared 
for by the too humane daughter of Pharao.” “ True,” replied 
Cyprian, “ therefore the safer is his testimony ; he learned all 
your sciences, and he put them to a good use, surely, when, 
without any gain to himself, he rescued his enslaved brethren 
from masters cruel enough to have demanded his death when a 
helpless infant. You have no historian, among you so ancient, 
and certainly none so trustworthy as Moses, whose record of 
events from the earliest times you must consult when you desire 
to learn anything of the early history of mankind. Yes, 
Moses ow'es Egypt his vast knowledge, but the whole world 
owes Moses a tribute of gratitude and praise for having res- 
cued from oblivion the remote history of the human race.” “But 
this does not answer my question,” retorted the bafllecj priest 
of Serapis. “ Why did not your God, who did so many wondrous 
things ages ago, save your Holy City from the gods of Eome 1 
Has He grown weaker of late ? ” The crowd laughed at this 
sally, but their laughter was quickly turned upon the pagan 
by Cyprian’s reply. Said li^e, “ 0 priest of Serapis (a god un- 
known to your fathers), why did not your gods save Egypt 
from the arms of mighty Rome ? ” A cheer greeted the argu- 
tmntum ad hominem. Angry and desperate, the priest of Se- 
rapis returned to the charge. “ All the gods have a home in 


ALMOST A MURDER. 


195 


Rome,” said he, striving to keep his temper, “ and ” — here his 
eye kindled as he felt he was about to score a successful parry-»- 
“it is like a Jew to strive to stir up the people of this happy 
province against the imperial house of the gods. You have 
murdered the helpless," he continued. “You excited all Asia 
to sedition. You burned the greater part of Rome, but the 
gods have triumphed over you and your dead God.” The stu- 
dents became sullen and awaited the answer to these charges. 
It came slowly, calmly, and with .the majestic tone of truth. 
“You have accused the Christians of sedition, of burning, and 
of murder," said Cyprian, looking the boastful pagan full in the 
face, “ but it would be hard for you to prove such a monstrous 
assertion. Like many others you confound us Christians with 
the Jews, which is as absurd as to class the Stoics with the 
Epicureans, or the worshippers of Isis and Serapis with those 
of Ormuz and Ahriman. True, the Emperor Nero accused the 
Christians of burning Rome, but every one in Rome disbelieved 
him, and to-day it is taught in every school of history that he 
was himself the wicked incendiary. But you accuse us of sedi- 
tion and of mui’dering the helpless. Here your ignorance, if 
you are really ignorant, misleads you. \Ve are not Jews ; 
and they were Jews who committed those outrages. They 
were, perhaps, driven to do some of them, but that matters 
little for our argument. Before the siege of Jerusalem began, 
the Christians went out of that city, and dwelt at Pella. They 
were often attacked by the Jews, but they never retaliated. 
What means then your question, ‘ Has our God grown weak ? ’ 
The God who created Heaven and earth promised to stand by 
the Jewish nation, if the people would comply with the observ- 
ances of His law. He threatened to abandon them finally and 
forever, in case of disobedience. They repeatedly deserted 
Him, and when His Son came to redeem them, they rejected 
and crucified Him. If you would only take the trouble,” he 
continued, “ to read the record of Hia life written by His dis- 
ciples, nearly thirty years before the destruction of Jerusalem, 
you will find that He once wept -while foretelling its terrible 
fall No, our God has not grown weaker; but He has chas- 
tised His guilty children who neglected His law, and despised 
His Christ, whom we Christians adore and serve. We do not 
worship a dead God, as you have been pleased to call Him, but 


19G 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


the living Christ, who arose from the dead by His own Divine 
power.” The audience, which up to this time had been all atten- 
tive, smiled at the mention of a resurrection, and some of them 
went away having heard enough of Christian teaching to con- 
firm their scepticism or their infidelity. “ It may be,” rejoined 
the priest of Serapis, “that you are different from the Jews ; 
but one thing is certain, that Egypt will forever cling to her 
divinities, and especially to the mighty Serapis, who watches 
over our spiritual interests and answers our petitions by his 
oracles. “ Behold,” he continued, “ his lovely temple ; see it 
standing boldly orl yonder eminence. A hundred steps lead to 
its portals ; and its hundred porticos, and columns, and costly 
statuary attest the magnificence of its sacred worship. What is 
like it in the universe 1 and your little God is afraid to venture 
above ground. You worship Him in holes and caverns, and in 
darkened chambers.” “ We worship Him in spirit and in 
truth,” retorted Cyprian, “ and if the hatred of our enemies has 
driven us into caves and hiding places, our God is none the less 
able to hear and help us. We are tried in a fiery furnace, so 
that only what is good may remain with us ; but a day will 
come when the whole world will worship the only true God. 
Your gods,” he went on, “ promise you earthly pleasure, they 
have not yet presumed to look beyond the dismal curtain of the 
grave ; but our God for whose sake we long for and even court 
death, has promised us a never-ending life of bliss beyond the 
tomb. Our God dwells amongst us too, and feeds our souls 
with the heavenly food of His flesh ; but though He often per- 
forms stupendous miracles by the hands of His lowly ministers. 
He does not speak ambiguous verses through the mouth of 
brazen statues.” “ What,” said the priest of Serapis, “ you in- 
sult our divinity,” and he leaped about as if frenzied, and 
called on the crowd to tear the enemy of the gods to pieces. 
But the crowd was divided, most of them taking the side of 
Cyprian, and the enraged priest shouted for blood in vain. 

Encouraged by their apathy towards the idolatrous priest, 
Cyprian descanted on the origin of the worship of Serapis. 
“ You know, my friends,” said he, “ that this god is a foreigner 
in Alexandria ; that his worship was brought here by the first 
Ptolemy, who had no better recommendation for him than that 
furnished in a dream ; that he was the fetish of the barbarians 


ALMOST A MURDER. 


197 


of Pontus ; and that to this day no two men are agreed as to 
whether he is the god of day or of night, Ho wonder his wor- 
ship is confined almost to the walls of this city, and that Egypt, 
in general, refuses to acknowledge him.” “ Serapis,” the great 
god of Alexandria,” screamed the priest, has shown his power, 
and countless thousands have heard his divine voice in yonder 
holy precinct,” “Men of Alexandria,” said the zealous Cyprian, 
“ you know that there can be but'one God, supreme and holy, 
who will not encourage a lie. Go and investigate this temple 
for yourselves, and you will find that the oracle of the brazen 
statue, which stands in that high fane is a fraudulent trick of 
the priests. I will go with you into the temple with this priest, 
and let him call on his god to destroy me if he can. I chal- 
lenge him to the. trial. But if, when I invoke my God, the 
statue of the false god Serapis will not crumble and fall to the 
earth, then you may indeed say Serapis is more powerful than 
Christ.” “A fair offer,” “A just proposal,” Let’s away to the 
trial.” These and the like were the exclamations of the jnotley 
crowd, whose curiosity was aroused to the highest pitch. 
“ Stop,” shrieked the infuriated priest of Serapis, “ do you wish 
to bring down on your guilty heads the anger of the god 1 Are 
you so foolish as to invite the lightning of his wrath by an 
impious curiosity, and a studied insult to the giver of all the 
blessings you enjoy 1 Do as you wish. I have now warned 
you ; but remember,” and here his eyes dilated and seemed to 
flash fire from their pupils, “ the moment the unbeliever enters 
the temple [of the god who makeg the Nile to overflow and fer- 
tilize its bahks, the earth shall quake, the sun shall wane, the 
sea shall roll up its mass of waters upon the accursed land 
which harbors sacrilegious hands, and then all nature shall 
wither away into nothingness. Innocent and guilty alike shall 
perish — so it is written — the day the sanctuary of Serapis will 
be invaded.” The face of the magician priest had become al- 
most black ; and as he stood facing the hesitating students, the 
long forefingers of both his hands pointing towards heaven and 
raised above his head, a shudder seized even these reckless 
young men, whose superstitious dread of thejunseen, was sud- 
denly aroused by the direful threat, and none of them ventured 
farther to test the merits of their tutelar’s divinity. Then, as 
if unwilling again to arouse the ire of the priest, and yet 


198 


IllENE OF CORINTH, 


ashamed of their cowardice, they suddenly broke up and de- 
parted in silent and disappointed groups. It was a critical 
moment for the young champion of Christianity. He was in 
doubt how to act, but after a moment’s reflection, he thought 
it best to retire without again calling on the dispersing audi- 
ence, lest that, if once aroused by the magician, they might init- 
iate a riotous attack on Christians wherever found. It would 
be no unusual incident, and one very pleasing to the pagan 
priests, and to many of the degraded natives of a country 
which worshipped cats and crocodiles, and went on one occa- 
sion to war to defend the honor of these outraged deities. 
Cyprian stepped down, therefore, from the bench on which he 
had been standing during his discourse, and passed along the 
empty stands in which, on stated days, the vendors of various 
market produce were accustomed to expose their goods. The 
pagan priest would have been delighted at the success of his 
threat, if it had not so nearly failed. He had barely saved the 
trickery of the priests of Serapis from an exposure which came 
only three centuries later. The feeling of relief which he ex- 
perienced when the crowd ceased to pursue their dangerous 
inquisition, was choked by the awful remembrance of the sus- 
pense and agony he had suftered, before the result of the ruse 
became certain. This Christian, he thought, is subtle and elo- 
quent, and on some other occasion his trick may succeed, while 
mine will fail ; and then, good Serapis, our trade will come 
to an end. He shuddered, as already in fancy he saw the 
crowd rushing into the sanctuary, descending into the vaults, 
and tearing the statue to pieces, there to find the hollow place 
where the attendant would secrete himself, and speak or sing 
oracular verses, which a deluded populace listened to with 
awe, and committed to memory as the utterances of the Eter- 
nal Being. He shuddered, and then resolved to take the life 
of Cyprian on the first favorable occasion. He followed the 
young priest for the space of a few hundred yards, until he 
approached a beautiful grove of lofty and umbrageous elms, 
interspersed with a few tall sweet-scented pines. 

In the grove a few children were playing about, but as no 
one else was visible, the villain rushed up stealthily behind 
Cyprian, and unsheathing a dagger, which he had kept con- 
cealed under his long cloak, aimed a blow at the unsuspecting 


A [-MOST A MURDER. 


199 


cleric. The blade passed harmlessly under his arm, cutting 
only his tunic fin its progress. With a soldier’s presence of 
mind, he turned quickly ’ 's enemy and hurled him to the 



earth before he could 


second time. His military 


habits in fact, so mastered him for the instant, that he .put his 
hand to his belt to grasp the sword he no longer carried. 

The children who saw the attack, ran shrieking from the 
scene to their nurses or parents who were in a distant part of 
the grounds. Just then also, a company of troops appeared; 
and the fallen priest, having first thrown away his dagger, 
raised himself quickly from the ground and hastened to 
meet them. He told them that a Christian had attacked 
him and that he barely escaped with} his life. His story 
was believed, and a rush was made for the victim of this 
murderous liar. Cyprian stood his ground and demanded that 
his accuser be taken prisoner ; but he received only blows for 
an answer from the men, who only a few years before had 
helped to roast the flesh of Christian martyrs by slow fires. 
The pagan priest lifted his own dagger from the ground and 
holding it up before the soldiers, exclaimed, “ behold the wea- 
pon he used against me : he hid it in here in the dry leaves.” 
But all breathless, hereupon a female slave came running up 
and cried out, “ hold ; you are taking the wrong man away. 
This short man is the murderer. I saw him from a distance 
striking at the taller man ; surely he must have left a mark.” 
Quickly, the priest of Serapis felled the slave to the ground 
with a blow, and urged the soldiers to hasten away with their 
prisoner. The fallen slave was stunned by the fierce blow she 
had received and by the fall ; but only for a moment. She was 
aroused by a sudden interest in the victim of the priest’s trea- 
chery ; and she might have been pierced through the body at 
that moment and still retain her consciousness. Blood was 
flowing copiously from her mouth when she rose up and started 
after the procession shouting, and calling upon the soldiers to 
listen to her story. Then a number of children who had fled 
when the attack was made, and who stood on the outskirts of 
the park, were]accosted by the slave in these words in presence 
of the soldiers, “ Children you were near by when this fight be- 
gan.” She was interrupted by the murderer, who a second 
time struck at her, but this time with less accurate aim. She 


200 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


avoided the blow and continued to address the children, who 
were again beginning to run away from possible danger. 
“ Who struck the blow with the sword, the tall or the short 
man 1 ” she screamed. Again she lay prostrate on the ground, 
struck by the cowardly murderer. But one of the soldiers 
more suspicious than the. rest, or less regardful of the pagan 
priest’s dignity, advanced quickly and called on the children 
to halt. As soon as he did so, the murderer turned and fled 
back into the grove. The children confirmed the slave’s reci- 
tal, and Cyprian was set at liberty. Then he showed them 
where the dagger had passed thro'ugh his clothing, and went 
to the assissance of his rescuer. The soldiers, instead of pur- 
suing the guilty man, went on their way, rather chagrined at 
having been deceived by the priest of Serapis, "'and sorry, 
because dejfrived of an opportnnity to torture a Christian. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

THE siren’s banquet. 


“ With that methought a legion of foul fiends 
Environed me and howled in mine ears 
Such hideous cries, that with the very noise 
I trembling waked, and for a season after 
Could not believe but that I was in hell.” 

—Hichard III. 


* T will be remembered that a certain senator’s son, Tullius 
by name, sought an introduction, through his faChef, to 
Irene. Frequently the lady was invited to his mansion, 
and a few times shfe accepted these invitations to dine with the 
family. The youthful heir of his father’s honors and property, 
became every day more and more infatuated with the lady, 
who from the first discouraged his suit. But he considered her 
conduct as one of those artifices which women are often said to 
use in order to conceal their real inclinations. So Tullius 
hoped to overcome Irene’s objections real or fictitious ; and 
every repulse on her part, only caused him to advance more 
resolutely to the a,ttack. At times he would be quite despon- 
dent, at others, elated by some word carelessly dropped from 
the dips of the woman he loved. He consulted oracles which 
always encouraged him, and paid his vows to the goddess who 
was supposed by the superstitious to favor love affairs, and 
finally, had recourse to the most equivocal of all means, the use 
of a love potion. But when the supper at which he chose to 
administer it was ready, Irene did nob appear, and the charm 
failed to operate. Then he fell into dissipated habits, and 
strove to drown his cares in the wine cup. Poor Tullius ! How 
many men, for one reason or other, pursue the same suicidal 
course to-day. Once, while reeling homeward under the influ- 
ence of the dangerous beverage, he met Irene. With an at 
M 


202 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


tempt at sobriety which was extremely ludicrous, he steadied 
himself and made his bow ; but unfortunately he overbalanced 
himself, and fell almost into the gutter. He was not so com- 
pletely intoxicated, however, as not to have seen a smile flit 
over the pale features, as he went down ; and when he arrived 
home, he was so distressed with the shameful situation, that he 
could hardly be kept from cutting his throat. When he became 
sober he knew that his prospects were less flattering than ever, 
and he began to hate the woman whom he had loved in vain. 
His worthy parent from time to time warned him against the se- 
ductions of wine 3 and his sisters, who were more virtuous than 
most of their equals in age, besought him to have some regard 
for their honor as well as his own, and leave off a career that 
would bring discredit on all his relations. But Tullius knew 
better, even if he did not plead the universal immorality of the 
day in excuse ; so he merely jested with his monitors, or passed 
their well meant homilies over in silence. Whenever he was 
absent later than usual at night, his good sisters would indulge 
in some speculation regarding the cause of his unwonted dissi- 
pation ; but they invariably arrived at the same conclusion al- 
though by different routes, — “ He is in love with that Irene who 
adores the horrid Jew,” they would say ; for the fact of Irene’s 
belief in Christ was soon well known. His father, too, knew 
or suspected the cause of his son’s folly. “ It will wear off,” 
he would say, whenever approached on the subject; “it will 
wear off with time. He is dreaming now, but he will wake up 
the first time he sees another good-looking woman.” Now, when 
the great Triumph of the two Emperors was at hand, Tullius, 
swallowing his hatred, made one more effort to at least approach 
the object of his affections. He begged by a special and trusty 
messenger to be allowed to escort Irene to the great games at 
the Circus. “ You will in any event go,” said the messenger, 
“ and you may just as well enjoy the drive with my young mas- 
ter. He is pining to do something to please you ; do not, 
therefore, fair lady, reject the nobleman’s offer. He fears you 
do not love him ; but he is so unselfish that he loves you ten- 
derly withal.” Irene shrank back when the messenger offered her 
an elegant pearl and gold necklace, on the part of her admirer. 
“ Tell your young master,” she said, striving to conceal her 
manifest emotion, “ that I cannot encourage his suit by accept- 


THE siren’s banquet. 


203 


ing presents. I have already told him that I dare not wed 
him, and only his thoughtlessness saves his importunity from 
the appearance of insult. He is no doubt sincere, but I cannot 
suffer him to approach me as a suitor.” “I am sorry,” rejoined 
the other, “ that I have no better answer for the son and heir 
of the noblest senator of Rome. However,” he continued, “ and 
I now speak for myself, not for him ; if I were in his place I 
would resent your unreasonable toying with his affections. You 
are no match f®r one so wealthy as he, and besides,” — “ Well,” 
said Irene, coldly, as she advanced and held the door of the 
apartment half open — “finish your admonition and go.” “It 
is this,” said the messenger, who was boiling with rage, “ I 
make no attempt to conceal it, you are one of the accursed sect 
that hate the gods of the Empire. If I were Tullius I would, 
I say, have my revenge.” And with a parting look -which 
might have made her quail, he took his departure. Irene 
answered this contumely with a smile, which must have made 
the brute feel very miserable, as she opened the door a trifle 
wider to facilitate his exit. He probably thought by this 
threat to frighten a young girl — a thing, a toy — in his opinion^ 
and thus do on his own account* a little service for his master. 
Or it may be that his master told him to exert a little pressure 
of this kind, as a last resource, if Irene should fail to accept his 
invitation. Whichever of these suppositions is the true one, it 
is certain that the attempt to intimidate was as fruitless as 
that to entice a woman, who was taught by her faith to look 
upon a departure from principle as the beginning of sin and 
the courting of dishonor. 

When the ruffian went away Irene related all that had passed 
to the members of the household with whom she lived. Al- 
though they affected to think nothing of the threat, they really 
' apprehended trouble ; for what could not a senator do in a 
State where law and order were so often openly defied, or what 
justice might Christians expect from men who regarded them 
as enemies of the State 1 When Irene so suddenly disappeared, 
then, a few weeks after, they did not doubt but Tullius had some- 
thing to do with her abduction ; and as they could do nothing 
else, they prayed for her, and waited with anxiety for some 
news of her fate. When Tullius received Irene’s firm refusal, 
he made up his mind very speedily to have “ satisfaction,” as 


204 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


he called it. He had lowered himself, he thought, by asking 
such a woman to marry him when there were so many others 
available — perhaps not so handsome — but rich and educated. 
Then, for the first time in hie life, he took an unsentimental 
view of the case, and asked himself aloud as he promenaded in 
his room with rapid paces. “ What is beauty, anyway ] It will 
fade from every woman’s cheek, some day, and .then they be- 
come insipid. If they have money there is something to fall back 
upon ; if not — . But to be refused and insulted by the Chris- 
tian minx is beyond endurance,” he yelled, and brought down 
his fist on the table which stood in the middle of his room and 
held a choice bouquet put there by one of his sisters that morn- 
ing. The vase, an idea in beaten gold, fell at his feet and re- 
ceived a kick that sent it into a remote corner where it was 
found and wept over next day by the gentle and disappointed 
donor. For a long time before he saw Irene, the senator’s son 
had paid his addresses to Pontia, and was very well received ; 
but that lady had so many admirers that it would be unsafe 
to venture an opinion as to his exact standing with her. As 
soon, however, as it became known that Julius was the favored 
one, a general change of front took place all around. Some 
of Pontia’s suitors resolved to “ drop ” her, and others to steal a 
march on the accepted lover, and among the latter was Tullius. 
On her side Pontia, true to her character of a confirmed flirt, 
kept him in doubt and trifled with him as with several others 
who chose to play the same role. But when Julius went to the 
East with the army, Tullius had it all his own way ; and many 
thought that he and Pontia were soon to become man and 
wife, while J ulius was seeking for glory on the soil of Pales- 
tine. But when these very untrustworthy rumors were float- 
ing about, Tullius met Irene. Much as he had admired Pontia 
he had never really loved her ; but he did not discover this 
fact till the fair Corinthian smote him with her charms. He 
straightway began to neglect Pontia’s invitations, and to have 
her indirectly informed, after Irene had dined with him, 
that another fair victim lay within his grasp. For a while 
Pontia felt the dight keenly ; but she strove to return the conx- 
pliment by encouraging young Tullius’s most inveterate enemy. 
Thus the two played at this little contemptible game — a game 
which alas, is the sole occupation of many a senseless pair to- 


THE siren’s banquet. 


205 


day, who like these ignore the first principles of social pro- 
priety. Then the crash came. Julius returned, and once more 
visited Pontia, whether invited or uninvited the world knew 
not ; and Irene refused to accept the last invitation of Tullius. 
Baffled in every way the senator’s son resolved to risk a doubt- 
ful experiment. He heard that Pontia had in some way be- 
come acquainted with Irene ; and the conviction rushed sud- 
denly upon him that she was the cause of the latter’s extraor- 
dinary conduct towards him. To write to Irene was useless, 
and to attack Pontia would be fruitless to repair the harm ; so 
he concluded to challenge Julius, his successful rival, to a gla- 
diatorial combat. It was a doubtful experiment, because Julius 
was more expert in the use of arms, though not more agile nor 
powerful of body than Tullius. He had just written the chal- 
lenge with a trembling hand, when a slave approached and 
handed him a sealed note. He took it, broke the seal stamped 
with Pontia’s ring, and hastily read theconterits — an invitation 
to dinner with her on that same evening. It was already late 
in the afternoon. He hesitated ; he was puzzled. A feeling of 
pleasure was quickly succeeded by one of pain, and his color 
came and wentj,»as in his then state df excitement he read and 
re-read the lines. He could now inflict a wound by refusing to 
go, and he was in the humor to do so ; but then he reasoned 
thus : “ Julius may be there, and I shall insult him in her pre- 
sence ; what a sting for both.” He smiled with malicious glee, 
and signified to the slave that he would accept the invitation. 
The evening was sultry.; and as Tullius walked briskly along the 
streets, which were filled, as they are to-day after sundown, by 
strolling bands of men, and gossiping women and playing chil- 
dren,he felt he was unsulFerably hot. The heat within was indeed 
more annoying than the heat without him ; and as he frequently 
ran against men and children (which last feat invariably brought 
down on him a volley of abuse from the injured mothers) the 
reader may estimate the disorder of his mind. As he neared 
his destination, his agitation became so great that he had to 
stop and grasp the pedestal of an equestrian statue which 
adorned the cross-road, and hold it firmly for some minutes. It 
was not cowardice that thus unmanned him ; but intense ex- 
citement produced partly by the unusual vigor of his inten- 
tions, and partly by his recent excessive dissipation. When 


206 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


his nervous fit had passed away, he proceeded on his w:alk to- 
wards the house where he hoped to deal two terrible blows. To 
his great and evident surprise he was met at the portal — 
an unusual welcome — by the lady Pontia in person, and 
ushered into her own apartments. Her face bore marks of re- 
cent weeping which she had not quite succeeded in removing, 
and her manner was so changed, that Tullius became more mys- 
tified every moment. Dinner was soon announced, and Tul- 
lius occupied the same seat as Julius had a few days before. 
The soups were of the best, ‘the viands, choice and rare ; and 
the wine old and of delicious bouquet. Between the courses, 
paid musicians played sweet airs in bewitchingly soft tones, 
and the spray which rose from the fountains in the atrium 
changed rapidly from the purest white to carnation hue, then 
to emerald or to aEure, then blushed to deepest scarlet and 
finally returned to lily color in obedience to the tint projected 
on it by hidden and revolving lights. All the young man’s 
sorrows vanished under the sense-absorbing variety afforded by 
his host ; and as the time sped on he forgot her former slights 
— and even his jealousy of the interloping Julius. If Irene 
had deserted him, he now possessed another as beautiful, and 
wealthier and, nobler, without an effort and with the suddenness 
and unreality of a pleasant dream. He wondered in fact if it 
could be real, and asked himself to what liberal goddess did he 
owe the unexpected conquest. And when by degrees it came 
out that Julius had deserted the noble lady, Tullius was 
too deeply intoxicated with the deliciousness of the situa- 
ation, so artfully planned by the wily Pontia, to feel the sting 
of his own debasement, or even to wish to rise from it. But 
if this rich woman gave her hand to the maudlin Tullius, she 
had a scheme to work out in which she needed his aid. The 
hand was his, but the heart was still her own. 

Twice after J ulius had supped with her, on the evening of 
the games in the Circus, she had repeated her invitation, and 
met with a disappointment through the inability of her favorite 
to attend ; but a third, a very pressing note from her reached 
him, as we learned in a former chapter, just when he received 
the Emperor’s summons. He could have called on her ikai 
evening, she knew, but he failed to do so, and she knew the 
reason. He had neglected her intentionally, and her loye for 


THE siren’s banquet. 


207 


him. took on the flavor of wormwood. Revenge she must have 
for the unmanly affront, and she swore by Juno to accomplish 
the ruin of an unfaithful lover. If the writer were a dramatist 
he might paint on many pages the scene of Pontia’s wrath ; 
how, for instance, she wept and tore her hair, and flung herself 
on a sofa in an agony of inconceivable despair, and the like ; 
but as he is not, he leaves these things to the imagination of 
his readers to fill up to their own satisfaction, and will be con- 
tent to record the concluding fact that the lady felt very 
much relieved after having afflicted herself and some of the 
furniture and one of her unfortunate slaves, whom she stab- 
bed in a shocking way with a pogniard ; and that when the 
thought came to her to accept Tullius and assassinate Julius 
she became as blithe and as serenely tranquil as if she had 
been favored with a heavenly inspiration. It was then that 
she penned the invitation to the senator’s son, and left 
no means untried to so captivate him as to make him the 
willing instrument of her vengeance. Rendered talkative 
and incautious with wine Tullius poured into the patient 
ear of his siren entertainer the story of his love for Irene, his 
disappointment and resolve, together with his hatred for 
Julius and his anxiety to meet him in deadly combat. “I 
thought you loved him,” said the maudlin lover, “ and I could 
not bear it.” One of Pontia’s smaller vices- was intemperance, 
and on this occasion, she indulged almost as deeply in exhilar- 
ating beverages as her victim. The immediate result of this 
indiscretion .was a confession of her unrequited love for Julius : 
and there she lost an opportunity. Had she been sober, this 
fact she might have concealed, and a duel now rendered impos- 
sible would have been for her a source of possible gratification. 

Next day’s sun was high in his course, when the inebriated 
Pontia returned to consciousness, and began to recall one by 
one the scenes of the past evening and night. She regretted 
only one thing, which was the foolish loquacity that beguiled 
her into a humiliating blunder. However, she returned to her 
first plan of action. Again and again Tullius arid she spent 
their evenings together ; and when she thought that the time 
was ripe for action, she revealed to her lover her desire of 
killing the recreant Julius. Startled a little at first, Tullius 
was led by the adroit reasoning of the murderess, to look, upon 


208 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


the assassination not only as an important act, but as a neces- 
sity for his and Pontia’s happiness. Servius was the man who, 
by reason of his enmity towards J ulius, could be most easily 
brought to do the deed, and do it well. He was convalescent 
when visited by Tullius, and expected soon to rejoin his legion 
which had gone into Gaul. Some days before his setting out, 
he received another visit from the senator’s son, and was in- 
vited to dine with him on the eve. of his departure, at Pontia’s 
residence. The day arrived ; the soldier was ready to set out, 
still somewhat weak, but hopeful and ambitious. He joined 
his rich hosts at a dinner such as he had never before enjoyed, 
or even hoped to enjoy. After the repast, the secret was for the 
first time broken to him, the secret cause of the unexpected 
friendship of two such noble persons. Assassinate J ulius ? 
Yes; nothing was more in accordance with his oWn wishes. 
But the reward for such a crime must be tempting indeed : 
the risk was great. Servius had accumulated a deal of wealth 
by carefully hoarding his pay, and by turning into cash 
the articles which, in the sacking of cities, had come into his 
possession. But he lost everything by gambling. When he 
started off to the East, he borrowed from the money lenders a 
small sum, but at an interest rate of twenty per cent, per 
month, or two hundred and forty per cent, a year. He ex- 
pected to pay this out of his share of the spoils which Jerusa- 
lem would furnish ; but his passion for gambling again over- 
came him, and the debt remained. , He agreed, therefore, to 
murder Julius for a sum of money sufficient to pay his debts, 
which, by compound interest for a space of three years, had 
grown to an incredible size. Tullius and Pontia jointly as- 
sumed his debts by a bond, and next day Servius began his 
journey towards the Alps. 

Julius had gone over the same road some time before in par- 
tial command of a legion, with a commission to put down 
various insurrections in Gaul and Germany. It was to entrust 
him with this command that the Emperor had sent for him, 
the momenP he was opening Pontia’s third invitation. After 
his interview with the Emperor, Julius took the crumpled note 
out of his pouch and read it. He read it because it was a habit 
to do so, not from ignorance of its contents. The seal revealed 
Then he reflected on the past, and strove to read the 


THE siren’s banquet.’ 


209 


future — behind him horrid memories, before him cruel doubt — 
and asked himself the question, “ How employ the present i ” 
Suddenly, he could not explain how, a sickening sensation of 
disgust took hold of him, and the name Pontia seemed to him 
to suggest all filth and ugliness. It would be very unphilbso- 
phic to heed such an irrational feeling, doubtless ; but he felt 
that he could not overcome it or set it aside. He tore the note 
in pieces, and flung the pieces from him : and the gust of wind 
that whirled them away as if in a giddy dance, and sped them 
far from his sight, kissed his cheek with its warm breath and 
whispered, he fancied, in his startled ear, “Irene.” Like a 
wanderer he left Italy, and crossing the Alps entered upon his 
duties without unnecessary delay. In Rhetia, and in distant 
Pannonia, he received recruits who professed the name and 
faith of Christ, and in almost every city in Gaul he found com- 
munities of Christians, and heard of numerous martyrs, who a 
few years before ha,d suffered for the faith. They were held 
in veneration by the people of their city, who prayed to them 
with full assurance that they would receive assistance from 
them. On one occasion he overheard a young soldier praying 
the Apostles Peter and Paul to assist his mother. Julius 
asked the young man, who looked sad, who these gods were he 
had been addressing, “Not gods,” replied the Christian soldier, 
“ but ministers of the Lord,” “And do you think they can 
help you?” asked Julius curiously. “Yes,” answered the 
other, “ they were the friends of God, and they have more 
power perhaps, to ask good things for us now, than when 
they were on earth,” “ Why,” said Julius,” smiling, “ how 
can dead men have any power ? ” “ Ah,” replied the soldier, 

“you are not a disciple or you would know that the virtuous do 
not die ; they live and are happy, and will be happy for ever. 
My mother,” he continued, “ has just died, and she maybe 
suffering for sin ; and this is why I ask the martyrs to pray 
for her speedy admission to the presence of the Lord.” “ j 
thought,” said Julius, “ that you Christians consigned the 
wicked to everlasting tortures ; how, then, can your mother, if 
suffering, be released ; what does this mean ? ” “ It is true,” 

answered the soldier, “ that the very wicked ones, who have 
murdered or plundered, or been obscene or the like, will.be 
punished eternally. But all sins do not merit such chastise- 


210 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


merit ; and a temporary fire purges those who commit small 
sins, until they become like refined gold, fit to stand in the 
most holy presence of God.” . “ A strange, but a reasonable 
philosophy,” mused Julius, as he turned about and walked 
away. “ Great wrong-doers suffer for ever, lesser ones for a 
time, and the good have power to help one another, and even 
to relieve the pains of their brethren. Immortal life, the re- 
ward of good actions, and a resurrection of the mortal flesh — 
strange philosophy.” He spoke thus to himself, half aloud, 
as he retired to a shady spot under a huge oak, and lay down 
on the thick grass. It was the second day after a battle, in 
whi(ii his arms had been so victorious that the enemy was 
annihilated. He was fatigued, for he had been in the thickest 
of the fight, and slain grealf numbers of the enemy with his own 
sword. The spot where he now lay was like an oasis in the 
desert of rock that stretched away on every hand, and rose to- 
wards the east in rugged and precipitous blocks, one above 
^another, to the height of several , thousand feet. On his left 
hand was a ravine, through which a noisy mountain torrent 
rushed madly, leaping from crag to crag, and lashing itself 
into foam and spray. All else was quiet. The sky was blue 
and cloudless, with the single exception of a long, fleecy vapor 
which flitted over the towering peaks, and dragged from one 
to another, till they looked as if clothed with a veil of the 
finest gauze. Looking away up the side of the mountain 
range, as far as the eye could reach, Julius saw standing out 
in bold relief from the grey and brownish rocks, a fine silver- 
colored thread, which glittered in the sun’s rays with great brilli- 
ancy. He looked a long time at it without being able to tell 
what it was, but as hp followed the line of this object down- 
wards, with his eyes, he saw another silver thread nearer himself, 
and below this a third, none of which, however, were touched by 
the sun’s rays. Each thread grew larger as it seemed nearer, 
and although the nearest was miles away, he concluded that 
they were all the same stream, which, issuing from a large open- 
ing, after a long subterraneous course, tumbled abruptly into 
the ravine beside him. As he became more familiar with the 
Alpine countries, he learned that these tiny streams which are fed 
by the sempiternal snows which fall where the foot of man has 
never trod, are very numerous ; and that whilst they furnish 


THE siren’s banquet. 


211 


many a river of Northern Italy with its limpid waters, when in 
their normal condition, they sometimes become so swollen and 
violent as to overflow the countries lying at the foot of the range. 
Julius was impressed with the majesty of the landscape, and 
reflecting that these senseless things, this rock which had been 
spurned by Hannibal, these waters which had rolled on for 
ages in the same well-worn beds, would outlive him as they 
had outlived the great African conqueror, and boast their rug- 
ged charms to a thousand generations yet unborn. “ Why 
do men alone die 1 ” he said aloud, as he stretched out his right 
hand towards the immortal giants of stone, which had neither 
speech nor thought to answer him. “ Why do they not live on 
for ever V' A cloud arose from behind one of the snow-clad 
peaks, and passing fleetly across the sun, cast down a shape- 
less shadow that swept the rocky plain. He ‘repeated his 
question to the sun, which blazed in tranquil and unapproach- 
able majesty, mounting every instant higher and higher in the 
cerulean vault. A whirling wind issued from the gorge and 
whisked up the long grass blades into the billowy motion of 
the sea. Its breath was icy ; the leaves above him trembled in 
its chill embrace, and by their rustling spoke their discontent. 
Other answer there was none to the mysterious question put 
by Julius to all inanimate nature. How beautiful this Christian 
theory, he thought; how consoling it must be. “ Why should 
I live for fame,” he said, “ if no undying spirit, now hid within 
me, shall live on when these limbs are cold, and be conscious 
of the praise of men ? What motive have I for being humane, 
not cruel, loving not hateful, just not unjust, if with death all 
ends for me 1 How can any act be just, or the contrary, if 
. there be no law which makes them so 1 Yet I know arid feel as 
all men have known and felt, that some acts are just and others 
not. If men are not immortal, what is cruelty but a name ? 
Yet I cannot admire Nero. All men hate him. Why is this 1 " 
As the shapeless shadow, which for a time* hid the sun, passed 
away, leaving his glory untarnished ; and as the icy blast, 
born in the yawning depths, sped onward, leaving the tree and 
the grass in peace, so the chilling mist of incredulity, at that 
moment, shrank from the generous soul of the Roman soldier, 
and left him in the peaceful belief in a future life, and the im- 
mortality and responsibility of the soul. He now perceived 


212 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


that dead matter was not the Divini^, and, consequently, not 
eternal. It was ever changing, therefore not divine. He per- 
ceived, too, that man was superior to this dead matter, in 
having not only sense, but reason as well He saw that every- 
thing in nature followed a law, manifestly the will of an Om- 
nipotent Lawgiver. He understood; that unless such a Law- 
giver existed, right and wrong would be synonymous terms ; 
and against such an hypothesis his reason, and that of man- 
kind rebelled. “ Either then,” said he, “ all men are irrational, 
or a Supreme Being exists.” He raised himself from his 
reclining posture to his knees, and for the first time in his 
life, made a formal act of adoration to the Creator of Heaven 
and Earth. He was not yet a Christian, it is true ; but he 
had received the grace which, with the consent of his own will, 
could not fail to lead him to the truth. Remaining in the 
same attitude — for he was dead to all the world without him 
— he followed -up the vein of thought which he had struck. 
His great difficulty had been to reconcile the coexistence of a 
Supreme Being and moral evil — a problem which, by the way, 
is as absorbing to-day as then. He felt the conflict of which 
the Apostle St. Paul speaks so eloquently, going on within 
him ; a conflict between his reason, aspiring to a great good, 
and his will drawing him violently in the direction of what he 
knew was wrong. He would have been unable to account for 
such a state of things — as Plato was — had not the doctrine of 
original sin, as explained to him by Irene, come up in his 
memory with peculiar freshness. “Our reason,” said she, on 
one occasion, “is a.shamed of the perversity or wickedness of 
our inclinations ; but this would not be so if perversity were 
an essential part of our nature ; for reason is never ashamed of 
its own natural qualities. We were not, therefore, destined 
originally to be wicked — inclined towards, evil ; but on the 
contrary, prone to do good, and practise righteousness. If, as 
is unforturiately the case, our nature has reason to be ashamed 
of its weakness, is it not clear that our nature has, to some ex- 
tent, deteriorated ? It has fallen from its high estate, and 
what is the cause ? There can be but one sufficient cause for 
such a c^amity. The avenging anger of a Creator disrespected 
and disobeyed by our ancestors. We are suffering because of 
the guilt of our original parents.” This argument which 


THE siren’s banquet. 


213 


shows conclusively the fact of our guilt, while it explains the 
existence of evil in the world, seemed cloudy when Julius heard 
it; but as it now came back to him, in his enlightened state, 
he saw its cogency, and accepted the truth. “ Yes,” he said' 
aloud, as the whole train of reasoning passed through his mind, 
“ no theory explains it so well as this; 1 see that we must be 
under a curse. Evil is not the work of God, but man’s work, 
or a punishment of man’s imprudence.” He paused for a mo- 
ment. His question, “why do men die?” seemed already 
answered, and he would probably have said, “ death is but the 
last stroke of Divine justice;” but the thought, which was 
ready to find utterance, remained unspoken ; for • at that 
moment a powerful blow, or rather a push, sent him head- 
long into the chasm, within a few feet of whose gaping and 
precipitous jaws he was kneeling. The hand that pushed 
him over the brink was that of Servius, the paid assassin, 
who had been looking for a chance since the day of his arrival 
in the camp, to execute his murderous purpose. When his 
victim, on this day, wandered away from the camp, he followed 
him cautiously till he saw him take up the dangerous position 
so well suited for a tragedy, at the gorge. Then he crept stealthily 
up behind the tree and waited for his opportunity. The roar of 
the cataract was favorable to his design, and the position of 
his enemy such as to render unnecessary the two edged blade 
with which he had first intended to strike him from behind. 
He chuckled with delight when he reflected how easily he had 
earned his fee ; but the smile was quickly frozen. Though on 
the field of battle a stranger to fear his pulse beat strongly and 
his cheek was pale as* he approached the unsuspecting soldier. 
But his task was unexpectedly easy, and in a moment the deed 
was done. 

When he began to breathe freely and had composed his 
nerves, he looked cautiously over the flank of the ravine. It 
was black down there, where the spray allowed him occasional 
glimpses of the craggy depths. Fit place for such a crime ! A 
sort of whirlwind drove tlfe spray about into fantastic shapes, 
and once he thought the face of Julius looked out through the 
vaporous film — and with such a look ! He shuddered and 
drew back, still staring at the mist. “ Bah ! ” said he, “ what • 
a fool I am ; and he looked down once more. Away below 


214 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


there a spur stuck out with a dull point, and it looked red — 
bloody ! “ He struck that on his voyage to Hades,” thought the 
murderer, striving to be merry. But one of those icy drafts which 
now and then dart upwards from gloomy abysses seized upon 
the culprit, and seemed to freeze his very marrow. He got up 
off his hands and knees, got up suddenly, and started back to 
the camp. 

The camp was pitched on the sloping side of a mountain. It 
was a perfect square ; but instead of the usual embankment or 
earthwork, it was surrounded with a line of large stones, backed 
by a kind of stockade made of pine logs. Everything about 
and around it was noiseless and motionless except here and 
there a sentry, who paced slowly in his well-beaten path, look- 
ing neither to right nor left, but ever in one direction. A line 
of men was just visible in the distance, driving small carts, on 
which were placed barrels containing a supply of water for the 
next twenty-four hours. The white tents of the officers dotted 
at regular intervals the enclosure, and shone out in relief 
against the background of the black-painted waggons and fal- 
len trees, like miniature niounds of recent snow. It was nearly 
two miles to the camp from the spot where Julius was pushed 
over the precipice. The road lay round several volcanic heaps, 
down a declivity, up a hill, then over a bottomless rent of irre- 
gularly shaped stones and shale which had been washed down 
% spring floods, or borne down with winter avalanches from 
the lofty peaks and deposited in the comparatively level plains 
at their foot. Servius traversed the road with a strange feel- 
ing of approaching danger. He had perpetrated his first and 
only murderous deed, and the apprehension of punishment 
which ever haunts the followers of Cain was strong upon him 
and was fast dementing him. He regretted, pagan though he 
was, having committed the act, and with his heart, as well as 
his lips, he cursed the day he met the cruel Pontia. He was 
avenged on Julius, it is true, but for what ? Julius had really 
done him no wrong ; and the small matter of a woman’s pre- 
ference now appeared to him not worth the life of a Roman 
lieutenant. Thoughts like these were new to Servius. Strange 
fact it is that men judge most rationally of the malice of 
sinful deeds when they have rendered themselves guilty of 
some very bad act. It seems that the conscience seizes on such 


THE siren’s banquet. 


215 


occasions to effectually, if possible, withdraw the sinner from 
his evil course by protesting vigorously against the crime. 

That morning Servius, in anticipation of the execution of his 
purpose, had forwarded a letter to Tullius, and one to Pontia, 
informing them of the success of his design. The courier had 
set out for Rome at daybreak. Several days must necessarily 
elapse before the instigators of the crime would learn of its 
commission, and they alone would know the secret of the loss 
of a Roman commander who was not killed in battle. Servius 
shook off his fears and appeared among his companions with 
an affectation of indifference which he did not really feel. In 
spite of his desire to show levity in his conduct, he felt that 
the attempt was vain ; and he was moreover sure that if any 
suspicious observer was near, his guilt would at once be de- 
tected, But the crime was not yet known among the troops, 
and not until late at night was any uneasiness manifested as to 
the fate of Julius. Servius had retired t6 his tent and fallen 
asleep, when the report was whispered abroad that the Com- 
mander was missing. Searching parties were sent out in every 
direction, and* Servius, as a superior officer, was approached to 
ascertain whether he knew anything about the missing lieu- 
tenant. Those who came to look for Servius found him lying 
on the ground, howling like a hyena. They tried to wake him, 
but for a long time were unsuccessful. At last he started up ; 
but by the vacant stare of his eyes they knew he did not re- 
cognize them. A physician was called, who saw at a glance 
* either that he was a maniac or was laboring under an attack of 
delirious fever. His cries were piteous. He begged to be res- 
cued from the Furies, who, he said, were scourging him with 
their serpent-hair. “ The serpents are devouring me,” he 
shrieked as he cowered in a corner, and sti-ove with his hands 
to defend himself against his imaginary enemies. “You are 
looking for Julius, ” he went on ; “I did it, but they are guilty. 
Tell Julius to come to me ; he will not let the Furies lash me 
so. Oh, take them away ; they feed on my heart ! They are 
stinging me to death. Julius ! Pluto ! Away cursed Furies, 
cursed Pontia.” With a wild maniacal yell he leaped up and 
fell forward on his face a corpse. The doctors thought that 
,his former sickness had again attacked him, and the mystery 
was as far as ever from a solution. 



CHAPTER XX. 

A pagan’s morality. 


E must now return for a time to the house of our friend, 
Nilos, at Alexandria. When Anna reached her apart- 
ments she went upon her knees, and besought the 
Lord to forgive the woman who had so severely wounded her. 
She heard nothing of the punishment which had come upon 
her persecutor until Zelta informed her of it. This poor 
slave was shocked when she saw her friend suffering ; but the 
thought that her pains were borne for justice sake somewhat 
consoled her. iShe at once proceeded to foment the wound, 
and render whatever assistance she was able to one*whom she 
must look upon hereafter not as an ordinary friend, but as a 
martyr. On leaving the apartment, she met the old negress, 
whose hateful countenance was distorted into a hideous smile, 
the manifestation of the joy she felt on account of the suffer- 
ings of Anna. “ How is the young lady 1 ” she inquired, ironi- 
cally, “ our young mistress,” she added, with a repulsive grin. 
“For shame,” replied Zelta, “what harm has she ever done 
you, that makes you hate her 1” And she passed on, -regard- 
less of the filthy and abusive answer which the Nubian hurled 
after her. A short time after this the negress was told of the 
miracle ; but instead of softening her heart, it only inflamed 
her the more against the religion that Zelta and Anna pro- 
fessed ; and she repeated her incantations and devilish spells 
with the hope of destroying both these Christian women. 

Zelta once said to her when she learned of her magic spells, 
“Sister, how can you hope to fight against the Creator of all 
things 1 In your miserable charms you employ things which 
He. has made out of nothing, and you think you can hurt Him 


A pagan’s morality. 


217 


or His friends with them.” “ Don’t call me ‘sister/ ” said the Nu- 
bian between her teeth ; “ you hate me, and I hate you, and all 
Christians. You can’t deceive me, calling me sister. The 
spells of Houdu can upset all the plans of your God. Why 
didn’t he help Anna when my charm broke in her pale face 
and spoiled her nice looks 1 ” she added with a triumphant 
look in her brutish eyes. “ Our God,” replied Zelta, calmly, 
who pitied the black’s ignorance, “ our God takes His time to 
avenge His own : He has an eternity to do it. But I warn 
you — she assumed a decisive tone — that the sword of the 
wicked shall enter into their own hearts, and their bow shall 
be broken.” The Negress answered the threat with a defiant 
and blasphemous expression, which appalled the Christian 
slave, and almost caused her to pray that an example would 
be made of the sinful wretch, for the benefit of others. But 
there was no need for such a prayer. It was the day for the 
funeral. Following the Eyptian custom, the body was em- 
balmed, and placed, with many heathenish observances, in a 
stone vault, built into the side of a-hilL After the ceremonies 
Anna, who had been for many days unable to appear out of 
•her room, took a walk in the garden accompanied by Zelta. 
Her face was now well, only a small scar marking the place of 
the wound. They were met by the Nubian, who at once be- 
gan to mumble her incantation. “ Hail, mistress,” said the 
wretch, bowing the knee before the convalescent girl, “ We 
shall all ask the Master to marry you.” And she pointed a 
scornful finger at the mark in Anna’s face. “ How pretty you 
look,” the negress continued, “ what a fine mistress you would 
be, with your broken nose.” The women'took no notice of her 
but passed on, followed by the most insulting epithets, which 
the degraded soul of the half savage could invent. Half an 
hour after, screams were heard issuing from the kitchen, and 
several slaves, among them Zelta, ran in to ascertain their 
cause. The Nubian lay in the middle of the room on the floor, 
tearing her flesh with her nails and biting her arms and naked 
shoulders with her teeth. “ She is mad,” cried all in terror : 
and they turned to flee, when Zelta stopped them, saying it 
was cruel to leave the poor wretch to destroy herself without 
making an effort to save her. Anna now appeared, and with 
the others advanced to help the sufferer. When they came- 
N 


218 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


near, the stench was unendurable, and from every pore of the 
Nubian’s body vermin swarmed forth. All* except the two 
Christian servants turned away in horror and disgust. They 
strove to lift the unfortunate woman, but her violence re- 
doubled, the moment she saw Christians approaching her. 
She blasphemed Christ as the cause of her affliction, and called 
wildly, fiercely, on her fetishes to give her some relief. Anna 
intreated, implored her to have confidence in the true God, 
who could heal her in a moment, if she would but believe in 
Him. “ You have seen His power manifested in this house by 
wonders,” said Zelta, “ and you ought to call upon His mercy 
now that you see your gods cannot help you.” “ Away with 
your God” exclaimed the negress ; “ leave me, leave me, I hate 
any God you adore.” Then her eyes fell from their sockets, 
and she rolled upon the floor, cursing God and invoking death. 
Even the pagan slaves, men and women, who by this time had 
gathered around, and stood at a distance, looking in through 
the door and windows, shouted to her to invoke the God of 
the Christians. Nilos himself was stunned, when he saw the 
example made of the blasphemer, and confessed that her ma- 
lice deserved this awful fate. For hours the victim of wrath 
writhed in throes of lancinating pain ; and at last, when 
unable to move hand or foot, she cried out, “ they are eating 
me up. I am dying : the Christian God has killed me.” Then 
she added feebly, “ my gods were false'to me j they have for- 
saken me.” She confessed to the ‘power of God, but like the 
wicked Antiochus, all too late ; and her blasphemies, repeated 
with a hardened heart, in spite of the evidence of her obtuse 
senses, now closed around her like the arms of an octopus, to 
embitter her dying moments. The revolting sight brought a 
profound awe upon all who saw it, and within a few months 
every one of Nilos’ household, except himself, were baptized. 
His business affairs at this time were very absorbing — a fact 
which drew him away . from his religious investigations — and 
the grace of conversion was consequently deferred for another 
and, perhaps more profitable occasion. 

Anna had now so far advanced in favor with Nilos, that many 
thought the ironical words of the old Nubian would turn out 
prophetically. His bearing towards her was marked with ex- 
treme courtesy ; and in a very short space of time, she was instal- 


A pagan’s morality. 


219 


led as general manager of domestic affairs. His children loved 
her 'and would not have been displeased to see her take the place 
of their deceased mother. The slaves looked up to her as a 
kind of guardian angel, and if anything went wrong with one 
of them, she was at once approached in the most confidential 
manner ; and her advice would be followed implicitly. Need- 
less to say, Zelta was transported with delight at the turn 
things had taken, and saw in them the hand of a kind and 
merciful Providence, who often forestalls the everlasting reward 
of good works with an hundred- fold in this world. 

One evening as she and Anna were sitting between the red 
marble columns of the portico which looked out upon the Medi- 
terranean, their conversation turned upon the former life of the 
High Priest’s daughter, and she recounted for her companion the 
story of J ewish misfortunes from the Babylonian captivity down 
to the dreadful siege .which ended with the destruction of the 
city and the Temple. “ It was as Christ hath said” she ex- 
claimed, as the history of the nation lay spread out before her 
mind. “ He foretold the dire calamity, and the prophecy was 
repeated by Simon Peter. The Jews in this last war were in 
the right, from a national point of view. They fought for their 
liberty and their firesides ; they fought to expel tyranny and 
Home’s false gods ! But they failed in spite of their good 
cause ; failed because the blood of the Son of God, which they 
had invoked upon their heads and their children’s, hung over 
them. Their cause was good ; but the hand of the Lord was 
chastening them ; hence they failed.” “ No wonder,” said Zelta, 
“ that Jesus wept over the city, as He foresaw how dreadful 
would be the catastrophe.” “Ah,” rejoined her companion, 
“ He loved His people, even when* all was lost by their 
crimes.” 

After a brief period of silence, Anna turned to Zelta, and 
addressed this abrupt question to her : “ Sister, you were telling 
me once about a quarrel which you witnessed in the park ; 
pray tell me all about it now.” “ 1 had quite forgotten about 
it,” replied Zelta, “ but it was a strange event. It was the first 
time I saw a priest violently resenting an injury.” Then she 
proceeded with the relation of what she had seen, and -what she 
had suffered at the hands of the priest of Isis. The reader will 
now recognize who the slave was that saved the life of Cy^ 


220 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


prian, when the murderous attempt was made on him. “ Twice 
the pagan tried to pierce him,” she went on ; “ and twice an 
angel turned the point aside. Then like a flash (>f Jlightning, 
he turned upon his assailant and hurled Ijim to the earth. Oh ! 
how my heart beat when I saw the soldiers taking him away, 
and I thought I should’ never overtake them, so as to convict the 
real murderer.” “But you did not know it was a priest who was 
attacked,” said Anna, inquiringly. “ Not at first,” replied the 
slave; “ but as I approached, I recognized him, and I was so aston- 
ished and frightened that I could hardly speak.” “ How provi- 
dential that the children saw the deed committed,” said Anna 
in a tone of gratitude. “ Yes, truly, the hand of God was in 
it,” rejoined Zelta, “for had they not appeared, I would have 
been killed, and our priest would have been condemned for 
murder, and no one would stand forth to defend his good 
name.” “ What a scandal it would be, and how opportunely 
averted,” said Anna, as she reflected how the pagans would 
rejoice over the reputed crime of a disciple. “ How kind he 
was to me,” said the slave, pursuing her narrative. “ When I 
opened my eyes (for I was sorely stunned by the second blow 
I received), it was like a vision of the Saviour to behold God’s 
minister bathing my brow — the brow of a slave — to see 
those little children holding the vase of water, and anxiously 
waiting for my recovery. How their little faces brightened 
when they saw me revive ; and one of them — a sweet little boy 
— clapped his hands so hard together for glee, that a cup 
of water, which he was holding, was spilt upon my breast. In 
a few minutes I was able to sit up, and in half-an-hour I felt that 
I could walk home ; but before I started, the young priest gave 
me his blessing.” “ Did you ask his name,” said Anna, full of 
admiration for his charity and courage. “ I [did,” said the 
other ; “but how handsome he was, like an angel truly. Like 
the one, I fancied, that conducted the young Tobias on his 
journey.” “You said it was by his height the children dis- 
tinguished him,” said Anna ; “ was he then so very tall ] ” 
“ More than a head above any of the soldiers.” replied Zelta, 
“ and somewhat thin, like one on whose frame long fasts had 
told severely.” “ He is not a native then,” said Anna, musing, 
as she plied her needle more rapidly on a silk ornament for the 
altar. . “ He is, perhaps, a Greek : what color was his hair ? ” 


A pagan’s morality. 


221 


“ Yellow and delicate as the rays of yonder mist-clad moon,” 
replied Zelta, in her figurative way. “ How beautiful must be 
the countenance of the Lord, when mere men are shaped so 
well,” said the daughter of Jerusalem. “And,” added Zelta, 
“ how perfect must be the love which draws such men as he to 
God, and causes them to forsake all earthly treasures and 
beauty for His service.” “ But what did you say his name was, 
sister ? Perhaps he will some day preach for us at the house 
of wealthy Arbax.” “His name,” said Zelta, “ is Cyprian. Why 
do you start, dearest Anna ; you look as if yon had but just re- 
covered from the embrace of the plague. Do you know him 1 ” 
“ Know him,” echoed Anna, after a pause ; “ would that I 
did and she sighed with embarrassment. “ The name, perhaps, 
is familiar to you,” said Zelta ; “ but why bedew the grass with 
your tears, dear sister 1 Have I said aught to afflict you ! ” 
“ That n&me, that name,” sobbed Anna aloud, as if unconscious 
of Zelta’s presence. Then suddenly checking herself, she 
added, addressing her companion, “ I am not well, Zelta, my 
sister ; let us say, good-night.” “ Good-night, dear sister, and 
the Lord keep us in His favor,” replied the slave. Anna went 
in, and Zelta stood awhile perplexed, looking after her ; then 
as she turned to go to her own quarters, she noticed the silk 
ornament lying on the ground : her mistress had dropped it in 
her agitation. She picked it up and brought it to her own 
room, not wishing to disturb Anna that night 

Is it necessary to relate here the cause of Anna’s sudden ill- 
pess 1 The reader has not forgotten how many sweet associa- 
tions, and how many bitter ones, were wound about the name 
of Cyprian and interwoven with her own heart. She did not 
as yet suspect that Cyprian the priest and her cousin were 
identical. It was the mere mention of the name that wakened 
the record of the past with all its sad and desperate incidents. 
Her prayers that night were full of distractions, which she was 
unable either to put away, or to struggle with ; and she laid 
her head upon a sleepless pillow, to count the- lingering hours 
of a seemingly endless night. Morning came at last, but it 
brought with it no sunshine. The sky was overcast with thick 
clouds of an unusual kind, which seemed like fine dust rather 
than mist, and moved slowly in a direction from west to east. 
The sun looked through the peculiar fog like the dull red glim- 


222 


IRENE OF CORINTH, 


mer of the Pharos lantern on a wintry night. The phenomenon 
was witnessed by every one, and a superstitious dread fell upon 
the pagan portion of the community, who regarded it as a 
forerunner of some great calamity. Looking out seaward, it 
was impossible to discern the boats in the harbor, or in fact 
to distinguish large objects at the distance of a quarter of a 
mile. Some people fancied that they found dust on their gar- 
ments and on flat surfaces not under cover ; and this proved 
to be true ; as the sailors who had just entered the harbor re- 
ported that they had been detained at anchor unable to see 
their way for the clouds of dust which filled the air, and fell 
upon everything on the decks of their vessels. Then the 
learned men took to collecting as much as 'they could get of 
this dust, and upon examination found it to be ashes which had 
escaped from some volcano, and was driven down upon their 
coast by the wind. A week passed away, however, before the 
news reached Alexandria that two cities had been overwhelmed 
by the scoriae and ashes which broke from Mount Vesuvius 
(Vesevus it was called then), burying everything out of sight 
and suffocating all of their inhabitants who were not fortunate' 
enough to escape by the sea. For many days previous to the 
eruption, smoke was noticed rising from the summit of the 
famous mountain, and assuming peculiarly hideous shapes and 
forms. Little heed was, however, paid to the matter, and every- 
thing in and about Pompeii and Herculaneum went on as if no 
terrible disaster were impending. Business was brisk, and sin- 
ful amusements progressed in spite of the volcano’s threaten- 
ings. Suddenly the earth shook, and a pitchy darkness over- 
spread those cities and all the surrounding country, while 
molten lava belched from the yawning crater, and poured down 
the mountain’s sides. As it rushed downwards, its fiery breath 
consumed the numerous vineyards and picturesque villas, 
which seemed to stand one upon the other, against the sunny 
slope. But the showering ashes took away the breath of all 
living creatures, and piled up with incredible rapidity in the 
streets and by-ways, till the doomed cities were entirely covered. 
For eighteen centuries they lay buried in their ashy tomb ; and 
would have remained so till the judgment day, had not an ac- 
cident brought to light, a few years ago, their long forgotten 
sites. 


A pagan’s morality. 


•223 


In a few days the air at Alexandria was free from the strange 
dust which had darkened the sea, and spread consternation 
among the inhabitants of countries hundreds of miles from 
Vesuvius; and the Egyptian metropolis once more basked in 
the torrid sunshine.. Anna had resumed her wonted tranquil- 
lity, and everything at the residence of Nilos seemed to float 
calmly down the stream of time, when an incident occurred 
which hastened the conversion of the merchant. 

A brother of Nilos, a very wealthy man, who was engaged 
in the Eastern silk-trade, was visiting the family for some 
weeks, previous to an extended pleasure tour to Italy. His 
faith, if he had any, was antichristian ; and he often chided his 
brother for his laxity in allowing his slaves to choose their 
religion. Nevertheless, he took a certain fancy for Anna, and 
although he detested her “ foreign God,” as he called Christ, 
he could not help admiring her unassuming and virtuous con- 
duct. His fancy became a positive liking, and his liking grew 
into the proportions of an overmastering passion. Cautiously 
he approached his brother, with a view to having her trans- 
mitted to himself. “ She would suit admirably to choose and 
assort my silks and other precious goods,” said the schemer, 
concealing his real motive. But Nilos was unyielding ; she 
was too valuable to himself, and he felt that to sell her to his 
brother would be to throw away a treasure. Perhaps he had a 
lurking reason besides, which he did not wish to make known 
to the brother ; very few men in his position would, and least 
of all if they suspect that they are dealing with a rival. “ No,” 
he maintained, “ I would not [part with her lor ten thousand 
sesterces.” “ Eidiculous,” the brother would rejoin, walking 
away. 

Finding that he was unsuccessful in his attempt to obtain 
possession of Anna, he resolved to approach her personally, and 
to propose marriage, if necessary, in order to secure her. He 
had learned her history ; and although it would be a disgrace to 
marry an ordinary slave, it was plain that no such stigma 
would attach to a union with a lady, whom the fortune of war 
had precipitated from the highest social standing into the low- 
est. Accordingly he began to show her marked attention, a 
fact which did not escape the notice of the household, and ex- 
cited comments, some favorable to her, some not, ambng the 


22-t ' 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


children and the slaves. At length he declared boldly his love 
for her ; and while expatiating on the great difference in their 
respective social conditions, and his own wonderful condescen- 
sion in proposing to her, he expressed himself, nevertheless, 
overjoyed at the prospect of making such a handsome and vir- 
tuous woman the partner of his life and a sharer in his wealth. 
“ You shall be free,” he said, “ and where my home is, no one 
will ever know that you were once my brother’s slave.” 
It is currently stated that the end of a woman’s existence is 
marriage, or a happy marriage ; and there are those who would 
call Anna a fool if she rejected the Egyptian’s proposal. Yet 
there are virtuous people in the world who take quite a differ- 
ent view of the situation, and among them was this slave, who, 
far from being dazzled by the golden opportunity, was greatly 
dejected. Her thoughts, from the first inkling of the meaning 
of the conversation, reverted to Cyprian, and it seemed to 
her a sort of treason to accept of any other man’s love. Yet 
she knew that refusal would incense the Egyptian, and most 
probably cause her a great deal of trouble. When he had 
finished speaking, however, her mind was fully made up. 
Cyprian, indeed, she never expected to see ; but even a nobler 
motive than fidelity to his memory urged her ‘to reject any 
matrimonial engagement whatever. She had heard the dig- 
nity of continence praised by her Christian teachers ; and the 
words of St. Paul recommending this virtue, rang in her ears 
with the sweetness of a chime from Paradise. As she had re- 
solved, so she spoke. “ Brother of my master,” said she, 
“your proposal is honorable, and I thank you.” Here her 
humility could not keep down the blush of indignation which 
leaped to her cheeks, as she thought of how he had patronized 
her, and she added : “ A few years ago I was not a slave, and 
I could have been married according to my rank. I loved 
then ; I still love ; so I must refuse your offer.” 

She had kept her eyes on the ground until the last sentence ; 
but as she pronounced the final words, she looked steadily into 
the Egyptian’s face. He laughed harshly, a bitter laugh of 
disappointed rage. He had humbled himself — as he took it — 
in proposing to her ; and so thoroughly had the belief taken 
hold of him, that he overlooked the usual forms of courtesy 
and put'his case before her, as if he were bargaining with a 


A pagan’s morality. 


225 


Bedouin. She resented this ; and it angered him to feel that 
she was right. “ We are here alone,” he said, then barring her 
progress, as she moved towards the door , “ and. you shall be 
mine whether you will or no.” She glided away from him to 
the other end of the room, and shouted at the open window 
for help. Then facing her would-be destroyer, she fearlessly, 
almost fiercely, confronted him. “ Villain,” said she, “ I am 
not a slave where my honor is concerned ; my will is my 
own. You have the power to kill me, but you cannot dis- 
honor me. Use your sword on a defenceless woman ; but the 
God who protected Joseph in this very land from the malicious 
and cowardly revenge of a faithless wife, can also, if He 
wishes, save me from your attacks.” 

For a moment the Egyptian was abashed, foiled, driven 
back, and his hand crept away, as if through shame from the 
sword which he had seized, when stung by the fiery words of 
Anna’s reproach ; but he soon returned to his lawless state of 
mind. “ Slave,” he exclaimed furiously, “ 1 will trample your 

honor in the dust, and your God is powerless .” The door 

opened, and Nilos, with Zelta and another slave entered in 
breathless haste. “ What means this 1 ” said Nilos, as soon 
as he had recovered his breath. The dark features of his 
brother had assumed a greenish hue, and a savage light shone ^ 
in his eyes. On the other hand Anna stood like a statue of the 
goddess of Victory, calm amid the storm that raged around 
her. She was confident, she said afterwards, .that God 
would save her, and no symptom of weakpess manifested itself 
throughout the trying scene. She came forward and threw her- 
self at the feet of her master ; tears were now fast rolling down 
her scarlet cheeks. The man who had tempted her was too 
enraged to speak ; he walked out of the room abruptly, and 
disappeared from view in the shrubbery. The situation 
needed no questioning. Nilos understood it at a glance ; and 
his respect for Anna restrained the curiosity he would have 
wished to gratify. He turned away then from tHe scene with 
a feeling of mixed awe and anger. He had a proof, before his 
eyes, of the sincerity of Christian virtue, that excited his 
deepest veneration ; but, on the other hand, he had discovered 
the treachery of his brother, who, failing to purchase the 
woman he fancied, strove to render her useless to her master. 


22G 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


As soon as the brothers met, Nilos reproached the other with* 
his unmanly conduct, and demanded why he should treat a 
friend, brother, and host, with such ingratitude. “ N ilos,” 
said the other, who had somewhat mastered himself, “ I was 
in love with that Jewess (Nilos bit his lip). I offered her mar- 
riage, and by all the gods in Egypt, do you believe me, the 
slave rejected me.” Nilos was immensely relieved; he was 
avenged. ' “ Then you tried violence,” I suppose, said he bit- 
terly. “ You might spare the taunt, Nilos,” replied the bro- 
ther ; “ it is hard to be put down by a slave, especially by one 
who prates about her honor.” “ She was once a free woman,” 
said Nilos, “ and she has not forgotten how to respect herself.” 
“ What care I,” exclaimed the other ; “ she is a slave now, and 
a slave is the property of her master. And, by Memnon,” he 
continued, “ perhaps while I am your guest I may use your 
property as you would yourself ; that’s my idea of hospitality. 
Bah ! honor in a slave ” he went on, accompanying the words 
with a scornful grimace ; “ and to threaten that her God would 
protect her honor.” “ Perhaps He ha^ done so,” replied Nilos, 
sharply, interrupting him ; “ and I tell you, furthermore, that 
I respect the honor even of a slave. I would not force 
any of them ; nor use them as you have suggested ; and 
if you wish to continue my guest, you must respect them 
in the same way.” “ Oho,” exclaimed the other, opening 
wide his eyes, “I suppose you will join her infernal re- 
ligion next, and invite me ’to follow your example.” “I 
have great respect f<>r that religion,” replied Nilos, his brow 
knitting. “ I have seen prodigies performed by its followers, 

which surpass the magical wonders of our priests, and ,” 

“ Nonsense,” interrupted the brother ; “ Don’t talk to me 
about those impostors, priests.” “ As you will,” said Nilos ; 
“but the Christians do not seem to be impostors, and as 
for their virtues — well, you have a proof of their sincer- 
ity.” “ Yes.” said the brother, grating the words through 
his teeth, “ I have a proof of female obstinacy, stupid- 
ity.” “ You call chastity obstinacy, then 1 ” queried Nilos. 
“ And you call it virtue, I suppose,” answered his brother. 
“We would regard it as such in our own dear mother,” re- 
torted Nilos, with a home thrust. “ Doubtless we would, 
.but “ But what? ” said Nilos. “ Can that which is vir- 


A pagan’s morality. 


227 


tue in our mother be aught else in other women, my bro- 
ther i ” “ Even in slaves,” said the brother, ironically. 

“ Even in slaves,” said Nilos, not heeding the other’s flippancy, 
“ virtue is virtue, never vice. Anna was not a slave ten years 
ago,” he went on with provoking clearness of argument ; “ and 
► she was virtuous then, because chaste. In what has she 
changed since except social condition ? And now she is — ob- 
stinate because she is still chaste. And even the other slaves, 
who were born so, came from mothers or grand-mothers who 
were once free ; and in what are they 'different from other 
women ? Brother, I have come into the conviction that a slave 
is as much to be respected, and more to be pitied, than free 
men and women. I am not a Christian ; but if anything could 
induce me to embrace that religion, it is the correct views of 
nature and. humanity, preached and practised by its adherents.” 
“ Nilos,” said his brother, “ I will take my departure to-mor- 
row.” “ As you wish, brother,” replied the merchant, who 
was evidently anxious to avoid further entanglements ; “ but,” 
he added soothingly, “ I hope you .will not go away dis- 
pleased.” “ That as it may,” said the other, walking gloomily 
away. Next day, faithful to his threat, he set out for Sicily. 
When just ready to leave, he called Nilos aside. “ I know, 
brother, that you think a great deal of that Christian slave,” 
he said gravely ; “ perhaps, even you will marry her ; I would 

kill you if, but enough ; I will not trouble you again. 

However, I cannot help giving you a little advice before I go. 
I have travelled, in the pursuit of my business, from the Pyra- 
mids to far Ethiopia, and thence to the Pillars 'of Hercules ; 
from India to the Caucasus; through inhospitable Scythia 
northward to where the Eha receives its waters amid hyperbo- 
rean snows ; and everywhere I have found members of this ac- 
cursed sect of Christians.” “ Christians ! are they then so nu- 
merous ? ” said Nilos, with growing curiosity. “ They may 
not be so very numerous yet,” he replied ; “ but they are every- 
where, and discord and misery follow theni whithersover they 
go. They teach the- slave to despise his master ; they laugh at 
the worship of the gods — and though we, who are better in- 
structed, do not needgods, the common people must have them — 
and everywhere they are rending father from son, wife from 
husband, brother from brother. Mark my words, Nilos, I am 


228 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


your elder brother, and have more experience than you. You 
may be cajoled into that sect some day, perhaps by your ser- 
vants-; and if you be so foolish, you will live to rue your de- 
grading act. These people are in league to upset society, and 
they will succeed, unless crushed in time. The government 
must some day take them in hand and put an end to them, or 
they will strangle the State. The only good edict Nero ever 
published was that against the Christians. He saw through 
their hypocrisy, as some of his successors will surely see again, 
and when the edict will go forth, you will'not be spared ; you will 
lose your property, and, perhaps, your life. You will beggar 
your sons and daughters; your name will become a term of 
reproach, instead of what it is now — a passport to respecta- 
bility.” “ You have certainly warned me amply,” said Nilos, 
who was amused by his brother’s seeming concern for him, 
“ and if I fall a victim of my own folly, assuredly you will not 
be to blame. But did it never,” he continued, following up the 
the train of thought suggested by his brother’s unconscious 
testimony to the progress of truth, “ did it never seem to you 
impossible, that a religion which teaches most wonderful things 
about a future state of bliss, and requires its adherents to deny 
themselves many pleasures in this life in order to secure it, 
could, without the help of some great God, seduce so many 
people 1 The. Christians whom I have met are not all addle- 
pated creatures, who might be led astray by designing men, 
but well instructed, and even superior persons, who are surely 
able to detect any attempt at fraud or jugglery on the part of 
their teachers and leaders. Besides, brother,” he went on 
warming up almost to the degvee of enthusiasm, “ these Chris- 
tians have a God. And, as you say, the common people need 
some god or other. I will answer for them that they substi- 
tute one perfect God, whom t]iey call the Creator of all tilings, 
for a number of imperfect gods who generate or destroy one 
another. Truej this religion treats the slave and his master alike, 
though not in all respects ; for I can attest that my Christian 
slaves are more submissive, more scrupulously obedient and 
respectful than the others. If it sets fathers and sons apart, 
and breaks up families, it seems to be hurtful to society; but 
I am quite sure that I would not hesitate to rupture the tend- 
erest bonds of sympathy, of affection, or of friendship, if, by 


A pagan’s moealitv. • 


229 


such a sacrifice, I were certain of purchasing such everlasting 
happiness as the Christian teachers promise.” “ Hypocrisy, 
fraud,” exclaimed the brother; “Nilos, you are becoming a 
dreamer, a fool, so farewell.” 

W bile this dialogue was going on the slaves were waiting at 
a little distance, straining their ears to overhear the conversa- 
tion of their masters ; and when it came to a close, they stood 
ready to accompany the guest of Nilos to the wharf. The end 
of a visit unpleasant to both brothers was at hand, and as the 
boat pulled out to sea each felt a sort of compunction for his 
conduct, and regretted the irritating cause. 

When at sea a few days, the Egyptian took particular notice 
of a young man who 'seemed the greater part of his time rapt 
in meditation. At the same hour every day, this young man 
would take from a little chest a roll of parchment, and after 
devoutly kissing it would fall to reading its contents. His 
singular conduct excited universal comment. He was bound 
for Carthage, so the captain said, but no one wasf able to guess 
the profession he followed. One evening as the ship danced 
merrily along under a full display of canvas, and the Oarsmen 
found their task an^easy one, the young man sat under the stern- 
sheets looking out upon the golden pathway which the setting 
sun’s rays were treading in the vessel’s foamy wake. A num- 
ber of the sailors gathered around him and looked in the same 
direction, as his countenance flushed with the reflection from 
the water betokened absorbing interest. Naught could they 
see, save now and then the lissome form of a dolphin arching 
itself gracefully, as it leaped out of its limpid element. After 
a little while the sailors were joined by the Egyptian traveller. 
Cyprian, iof he was the subject of their curiosity, was lost in 
contemplation of the perfections of God and the beauty of 
Heaven — thoughts suggested , by the effulgent magnificence of 
the picture painted on sky and water by the hand of the Al- 
mighty. “ Look,” said he, as he turned around and saw the 
crowd about him, “ look at that splendor which no painter’s 
brush can imitate or represent ; and now, behold ! it is sink- 
ing out of sight. It is a vision of the future, the endless future 
life of beauty and of bliss, reserved by the Creator for His faith- 
ful creatures.” There were present young men who had not 
seen much of a sailor’s life, and there were old tars who had 


IK,ENE. OP CORINTH. 


m 

buffeted the brine from many a dismal wreck) but none of 
them had ever before seen such beauty on the trackless deep. 
Cyprian’s words were silvery, and aroused their rude natures 
into a poem of sympathy with the surroundings. They gazed, 
like himself, on the scene in speechless admiration ; and as the 
last ray stepped behind the curtain of the west, and the lustre 
died from the foamy ripples, and the sea and sky united in one 
dull embrace of undefined color, like lovers who are wont to 
die together, every man there felt his spirits sinking and a de- 
sire rising in him to look upon such beauty — now too short and 
fleeting — and to look upon it for ever. Sighs escaped from 
many of them, and Cyprian read their thoughts. “ The Crea- 
tor, fellowmen,” said he, “ has made us for the enjoyment of a 
beauty far more perfect than this fading picture. In order to 
purchase the right to it for us. His Son descended from His 
Eight Hand, took on Him our nature, and suffered death.” 
“ This is one of those impious hypocrites,” thought the Egyp- 
tian ; “ a Christian ; but I will hear him out, and then con- 
found him.” In accordance with this resolution he became 
doubly attentive, and repressed a sneer. Cyprian went into 
the history of our Divine Lord’s life and public ministry. Stern 
faces soon relaxed. Even the Egyptian was softened, and as 
the young priest unfolded the terrible tale of the sufferings of 
Jesus at the hands of His people, tears glistened in his eyes. 
The life of our Lord as depicted in the Gospel narrative is with- 
out a doubt the most simply beautiful composition ever written, 
and none but the most diabolical haters of virtue can read 
the pages which record the whole-souled tenderness and over- 
flowing sympathy with men’s woes that characterized every, 
public act of the Saviour, without having stirred up within^ 
them feelings of love and veneration for Him. In the sermon 
on the mount He promises a blessing to the poor, the down- 
trodden, and those whom the slandering tongues of men afflict 
with untold misery and suffering. His blessed condescension 
towards the bereaved widow, whose dead son He gave back alive 
to her aged arms, stirred the souls of the seamen to admiration ; 
and when Cyprian related how, to gratify the desire of Mary, 
he raised her brother Lazarus to life, they exclaimed, “ He 
was indeed a true friend ; surely he was a god.” But the re- 
petition of the stupendous miracles which marked the career of 


A Ragan’s morality. 2S1 

the Son of God, caused them to fear that one who could do 
such things might also be powerful to punish delinquents, and 
they asked if He had ever killed any sinners. “ No,” replied 
the priest, “ He asked forgiveness from His Father for the very 
men who nailed Him to the cross.” When he had concluded 
the ghastly story of the passion, grief was depicted on every 
face ; but when he spoke of the resurrection they looked happy, 
because our Lord had overcome His enemies, and they asked 
where He was now to be found. Cyprian told them that He 
was in Heaven, and that by obeying his precepts they would 
assuredly one day see Him and be for ever happy in His com- 
pany. Thus time sped on till the hour for changing the watch 
arrived, when all those about the young priest went away to 
their posts ; not with their wonted alacrity, for they would 
have tarried forever listening to the wondrous tale of Divine 
love. The Egyptian alone remained. He at once addressed the 
priest. “ I have only your word for these wonderful facts you 
relate,” said he, “ but I believe them to be true, for it is impos- 
sible to invent such a history.” “They are true,” replied Cyprian, 
with the tone of authority his ministry gave him. “ I have 
them from the lips of the man who saw them ; and the signs 
and wonders which follow the believers in the Gospel of Jesus, 
in accordance with His promise, prove that we speak no false- 
hood. Our followers,” he continued, “ may be found over the 
whole earth, and are too numerous to be deceived. I am now 
going to Carthage, Hippo, and other places all along the coast 
of Africa to visit communities of Christians who have no priests 
to teach them.” “ I have travelled much,” said the Egyptian, 
“ and I know that what you say is true ; but I have always 
looked upon you as a band of conspirators against society. I 
have a brother, Nilos by name, in Alexandria, who, I believe 
is a Christian at heart. I did my best to keep him out of their 
society, but I shall 'write to him to inform him that I myself 
have become a disciple of Christ.” “ Blessed be the Lord,” 
said Cyprian, with holy joy ; “I once heard of Nilos through 
a Christian slave of his who saved my life on one occasion ; 
her name was Zelta.” Cyprian did not see the Egyptian chang- 
ing color ; the dim starlight hid his confusion, and only the 
start he gave betrayed his extraordinary emotion. He feared 
the slave would turn out to be Anna, a name which now burned 


232‘ 


IRENE OS’ CORINTH. 


into his very soul, causing him deep-felt contrition and regret. 
Cyprian did not appear to notice his new convert’s emotion, 
but simply asked him whether he knew Zelta. He answered 
that he did, but his utterance was choked. The priest respected 
his grief by not inquiring into its cause ; but the Egyptian 
could no longer conceal it, and with burning cheeks related his 
extraordinary attack upon the virtuous Anna. The merchant 
then went on to recount the reproof administered by Nilos, 
and incidentally mentioned that Anna had once been very 
high in social standing. This remark, coupled with the simi- 
larity of name, suddenly raised the priest’s curiosity to a high 
pitch. “ Of what nation was Anna 1 ” he asked expectantly. 
“ She was from Jerusalem,” replied the convert, who was too 
much engrossed by his own feelings to notice Cyprian’s anxiety ; 
“she was a Judajan, and was sold into captivity after the fall 
of her native city.” “ Father of Mercies,” exclaimed the priest, 
leaping up greatly agitated, “ could it possibly be my cousin 
“Your cousin?” queried the Egyptian, in the greatest per- 
plexity. “ The Evangelist said I would yet hear of her,” he 
replied half to himself, without heeding the other’s inter- 
ruption ; “ this may indeed be she.” “ Her prayers have pro- 
cured- my conversion,” said the Egyptian, “for I heard her the 
very next morning after my crime, telling my brother that she 
would pray for me. I laughed at the saying then, but now, — ” 
He was interrupted by Cyprian, who asked him to describe 
Anna’s appearance and complexion as nearly as he was able. 
The description fitted so exactly his cousin that there was but 
little doubt left in his mind about the identity, and he resolved 
to write for further information as soon as his sacred duties 
would allow. Indeed, if his mission did not call him elsewhere, 
he would certainly take the earliest occasion to return to Alex- 
andria, and settle his doubts by a personal visit. 

Their further conversation on this subject was checked by 
the advent of half a dozen seamen, among them the captain, 
who was anxious to hear the wonderful things Cyprian had re- 
lated to their companions si while before. The priest, though 
much fatigued, began his discourse over again, and the Egyp- 
tian, wjio was even more attentive than the others, found the 
history of our Lord’s life and doctrine more engaging than the 
first time he heard it. True to his profession, the captain was 


A pagan’s morality. 


233 


much taken with the miracles which Christ performed on the 
sea, “ I thought,” said he, “ that Neptune alone could calm 
the winds and the waves, or walk when he wished on the sur- 
face of the billowy brine. Perhaps your Christ is related 
to our sea-god,” he continued, in his ignorance of the 
nature of the Divinity. Cyprian explained that He was 
not ; and went on to show the absurdity of worshipping a mul- 
tiplicity of gods. The next and the third day the priest was 
kept busy instructing these poor men, whose ridiculous ques- 
tions showed how little they knew of God and of the future, 
or even of their own dignity ; and before reaching the coast of 
Sicily he had the happiness of baptizing the whole boat’s crew. 

It consisted of men from various parts of the world, who 
carried their faith with them and spread it to the best of their 
ability, each in his own family and district. 

It would, in one sense, be a tedious task to follow our Cy- 
prian on his long and extended mission through the then 
known parts of the African continent ; though in another sense, 
it would be for the devout Christian, very interesting. Let it 
suffice, therefore, to say that he travelled from objective points, 
such as Carthage, Hippo, Cartenna, and Tingis, into the inte- 
rior, wherever he heard that a community of Christians resided. 
Some of these colonies had their bishop and priests, and others, 
having lost both through persecution, were left to mourn and 
pray for an occasional visitation of some Apostolic laborer. 

Finally he was sent by the Bishop of Carthage to Rome with 
instructions to consult the successor of St. Peter on important 
points of church discipline. While he was on this journey a 
second terrible persecution was inaugurated against Christianity 
by the Roman Emperor who succeeded the mild and tolerant 
Titus. On account of adverse winds, thq usual trip of six or seven 
days was prolonged into as many weeks, and when Cyprian arrived 
at the port of Ostia, the first news that he heard was of this 
dreadful persecution. He pushed on, however, to Rome and 
proceeded to look for the Bishop of the Eternal City, in order 
to carry out his commission. It was no easy matter, as the 
Christians were once more compelled to hide from the light of 
day, and to keep secret the place of assembly and the abodes of 
the clergy. 


o 



CHAPTER XXL 

THE BIRD ENSNARED. 

t HE reader must now transport himself back to the scene 
of the struggle bet\^een the Jew and Servius* where he 
will see the horsemen who rode up just as Joras fell, 
taking him roughly between them and placing manacles upon 
his arms and a chain about his feet. Besides, he will see Ser- 
vius wiping his sword, carefully putting it up, and then ad- 
vancing towards the prostrate Irene, whom he raises gently 
from the roadside. She is not in possession- of her senses, for 
she looks about her vacantly, and addresses no questions to her 
captor. Yet she is able to walk slowly by his side, supported 
by his sy’m, as be leaves the scene of his terrible struggle. 
They had walked, perhaps, half a mile, when three muffled 
figures suddenly appeared, emerging from a doorway of an un- 
finished temple, before which stood several long poles and 
scaffolding, which gave it the appearance of a vast ship on the 
stocks. As Servius came in sight of them, he challenged them 
and was answered in a friendly tone. They were slaves to 
Pontia, who bade them assemble at that particular spot, and 
await what instructions the abductor of Irene would be pleaded 
to give them. He at once transferred his charge to them, and 
followed them at a little distance. It was only when they ar- 
rived at Pontia's mansion that Irene rallied sufficiently to 
question her unknown guardians. “ Where am I,” she asked, 
recognizing Servius, “ and where is that Jew ?” “I saved you 
from him,” answered the soldier, “ because I am your lover’s 
friend. You are too weak to hear how it was now, but go 
with these friends of mine until to-morrow, and I shall come 
and tell you all.” “ I thank you from my heart,” said Irena 
“ but whose house is this 1 I think I know it.” “ Pontia’s,” 


THE BIRD ENSNARED. 


235 


replied one of the slaves laconically, as he proceeded to inform 
the inmates of the girl’s arrival. “ Thank God,” she murmured 
fervently, looking after Servius, who was limping away ; “ I 
have a friend in Pontia, at all events.” At the same moment 
Pontia appeared, and received her former tutor with every 
mark of sincere affection, seated her in a comfortable chair, de- 
clared herself to be dying to know the cause of her suffering, 
and sympathetically expressed a wish to share her woes, 

.Is all that glitters gold 1 Are the demonstrative greetings 
or leave takings that we witness to-day, in society, more hol- 
low, false and treacherous than Pontia’s, or less 1 “You shall 
remain here to-night and to-morrow, my dear,” said this woman 
with emphatic unction, when Irene had related the little she 
knew of the circumstances of her capture ; “ you must remain 
with me until you are quite over your fright — truly you look 
like a corpse.” “ I was fortunate in meeting with your friend, 
dearest Pontia,” said Irene, interjecting the words between the 
voluble, sentences of the pagan lady. “ Only a recent acquaint 
ance ” replied Pontia, with a rapid glance at her companion 
that betrayed her desire of avoiding further reference to Ser- 
vius, “ But,” she went on, changing the subject, “ how glad 
I am that no stranger found you, under such peculiar circum- 
stances ; it would look so ill, if the fame of it spread.” ' “ 0, Pon- 
tia,” sighed Irene, who became first scarlet and then ghastly 
pale again. She knew what the world could say, and was in 
the habit of saying ; and that it would condemn her unjustly 
as an associate of ruffians, if the events of the last few hours 
became public. She knew this as well as Pontia ; and she'felt 
any reference to the subject as a slap in the face. She would 
not recall to the mind of a sufferer, thingswhich would intensify 
her pain. But Pontia was a pagan, to whom charity and its 
daughter politeness were alike strangers. So thought Irene, 
who checked the reproach which rose to her lips. “ Dear me,” 
continued Pontia, taking no notice apparently of the effect of 
her venemous thrust, “how awful the times are becoming. 
Every day we hear of murders, and*sMc/i murders ! Mothers 
kill their own babes, children their parents, wives their hus- 
bands, Outrage and violent oppression of weak women are 
nightly occurrences ; and so frequent are the deaths from 
poison, which lurks in the elegant dishes or choice wines of 


23G 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


the treacherous host, that one is afraid to accept a friend’s in- 
vitation to dinner.” And Pontia shook her beautiful head with 
a slow regretful motion, while copious tears started conveniently 
to her eyes. “ Society will soon melt away under such horrors,” 
said Irene. “ You speak the truth, ” the murderess went on. 
“ The State will fall, and we shall all become the prey of the 
barbarians if such things go on. Our poets tell us so, and it 
must be so. All the great athletes in the circus are aliens, 
as no Roman youth can be found strong enough to contend 
for the prizes. The same is true of the gladiators. What 
would, we ever do for games, if we had not those Jews and 
Thracians, and all those other savages to fall back upon ? !’ and 
her eye kindled with satisfaction. “ But I forgot,” said she, 
as she noticed her friend shrink at the mention of those san- 
guinary spectacles. “ I forgot that you did not appreciate 
the 'games. However, my dearest Irene, we are not going to 
quarrel about tastes ; but for my part, I would die in a month, 
if there were no games to distract me.” “I suppose I would 
like them, too,” said Irene with a shudder, as the result of 
such a possibility presented itself to her mind, if I had been 
brought up among them. . But, gracious lady, are they not a 
part and a result of what you were just now deploring 1 If 
the taking of life is lawful in the circus, it is lawful in the 
street and on the domestic hearth ; and when such things are 
tolerated by our rulers, is it any wonder that murder and vio- 
lence are unchecked abroad?” “ Well, well,” replied Pontia, 
evasively, stifling the voice of her almost strangled conscience, 
which quickened for an instant at the sound of truth, “ citi- 
zens ought to be better protected by our Emperors against the 
lawless hands of barbarians. But, as I was saying, my dear, 
immorality is rampant.” This was not very consecutive ; but it 
is hard to be natural under a mask. However, she proceeded 
like a genuine moralist, to inveigh against the wickedness of 
those in high standing. “ High-born ladies,” said she, with a 
virtuous scowl, “with little or no disguise sell their virtue to 
human brutes who are victorious in the contests at the circus ; 
mothers destroy their infants in most extraordinary ways, and 
wives desert their husbands. Why, even the Emperor’s wife 
was discovered in a secret amour with a low vagabond of the 
Suburra Clamosa.* Then look at the impudence of the manu- 


*A low street near the Forum. 


THE BIRD ENSNARED. 


237 


mitted slaves, those low fellows from every part of the world 
who come to Rome to make a fortune. They get money, and 
know how to keep it. They become wealthy by lending their 
earnings and their stealings to business men and senators at 
enormous rates of interest. And when their former masters 
become bankrupt through rioting and gambling, these men 
patronize them ; drive about in chariots, and have their ugly 
statues set up in the Forum. It is detestable. Look at Tri- 
gillinus and Nymphidius : they dictated Nero’s policy ! They 
were his freedmen, and yet they ruled the Roman Empire. And 
what outrages they perpetrated ! I would not venture beyond 
my own door-step at night, for fear of assassins — or worse ; I 
would not, I assure you, dearest Irene. How happy I am that 
you are safe with me to-night.” 

This terrible, but veracious picture of Roman indecency and 
degradation was sketched with the utmost rapidity by one who, 
as the reader is aware, knew a great deal more about such facts 
than she ought ; and as she gave it the final touches, she threw 
her arms around the neck of her companion and repeatedly kissed 
her. Irene, when she succeeded in extricating herself from the 
embrace of Pontia, remarked that if Christianity were adopted as 
the religion of the commonwealth, such horrid evils would soon 
disappear. “ Gracious lady,” said the ingenuous guest, “ you are 
virtuous above your class, and in spite of a religion which fos- 
ters the very vices you complain of. If you were but a. Chris- 
tian, you would be so happy.” “ Ah ! but you exalt the slave 
to the level of freemen, my dear, and I could never stand that ; 
still, as you say, I might be happy, if— but here is the lunch 
ready, and you need it so much ; come dearest.” The two 
women, when standing, were of a height, and both so beauti- 
ful that they might be mistaken by a pagan artist for two of 
the Graces, who had for a season parted company with their 
third celestial companion. They entered a little dining apart- 
ment — their heads close together, and their arms twined around ^ 
each other’s waist. It was not the room in which Julius was 
to dine the next evening, but one on the opposite side of the 
hall. A few delicacies were served on golden plates, and the 
delicious ’Maronean and Falernian wines sparkled in crystal 
goblets. “ Alas,” said Pontia, laying down a half emptied 
glass and gazing about with well-feigned sorrow, first at the 


238 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


costly but unchaste frescoes on the walls then at the nude sta- 
tues of Persepolis marble standing upon Parian pedestals of 
exquisite workmanship, and finally dropping her eyes to the 
mosaic floor, “ the last time I supped here, I had with me a 
lover whose heart is still for ever, and whose shade is perhaps 
wandering along the Stygian shore, waiting for some friend to 
give his body funeral lionors.” A sigh followed this declara- 
tion, and after a pause this further information for Irene : 
“ Many a night, he reclined where you now sit — before the le- 
gions went to Palestine — and sipped the rosy wine, and talked 
fondly of the future happy day of our marriage. 0, Julius,” 
she repeated, placing her hands on her breast, and looking 
steadily at her guest, “ if you were here now to join us, and 
sing for me while I played the lute ; but — 0, Irene ! Are you 
unwell, my dear] Slaves ! Here quickly.” 

Irene had fainted. A strange feeling had seized upon her limbs 
— a sort of numbness, and had just reached her head which began 
to burn and swim as the name of Julius was mentioned. She 
screamed and clutched at the table, but in a moment her eyes 
were fixed in a stare and she lost consciousness. “ The poison 
worked sooner than I had expected,” said Pontia to her trust- 
worthy slave, when Irene was carried into another roonn “ What 
that rough soldier said concerning the love affair between Julius 
and this minx, was only too true. I found out her secret in my 
own way. But she is in my power now ; and if Julius will not 
accept my hand, by the immortal gods ! his corpse shall float 
after hers down the yellow Tiber to the sea.” The poison pre- 
pared by the murderous Pontia was one that operated gradur 
ally. It induced sleep, but slowly and impercep’tibly ; and in 
a few days death resulted, usually without arousing suspicion. 
It was the drug with which she had got rid of her sister. Ow- 
ing to Irene’s weakness, its action was hastened ; and whereas 
Pontia had not intended the draught, which she so dexterously 
mixed with her victim’s wine, to act before the following 
morning, its first effects were visible within an hour. Days 
and days passed and Irene still slumbered. Julius had sup- 
ped in the next room, and had afterwards gone off to Gaul. 
Tullius had been sent for and made happy by the advances of 
Pontia, and finally married the murderess — still Irene woke 
not. Now and then fqod was given her, which she partook of 
without giving any sign of consciousness — she was in a trance. 


THE BIRD ENSNARED. 


239 


When Pontia was in the first moments of her disappoint- 
ment and rage at the conduct of Julius, she rushed into' the 
apartment where Irene was lying, fully resolved to pierce her 
heart with a poniard. “ You,” she shrieked, brandishing 
the blade about the corpse-like form and features of the sleep- 
ing maiden, “you it is who have robbed me of my Julius.” 
But just at that instant, Irene turned her head and smiled — a 
faint sweet smile — and uttered some words in the Greek tongue, 
which the murderess did not understand ; and Pontia’s arm 
was unnerved. She stood transfixed with horror. Before her 
she seemed to see the cold face of the sister whom she had 
murdered, wearing the same smile that sat upon it when she 
left this fratricidal world. The living ulcer of Pontia’s corrod- 
ing conscience broke out afresh, when she had thought it healed, 
and its stench pervaded and sickened her guilty soul. “ Mur- 
deress,” it seemed to say to her, “ shed no more innocent blood; 
remember your past crimes.” The dagger fell from her hand 
upon the floor and, screaming “ I am going mad, I am mad,” 
she ran from the room and from the house into the garden 
where, safe from the eyes of the household, she threw herself 
on the long grass and wept — bitter but fruitless tears. 

A. month went by during which Irene remained in her com- 
atose condition, when a messenger from the Clementine family 
called on Pontia, and asked whether she knew anything of the 
lady. The murderess was thrown utterly off her guard ; and 
not knowing what else to say, asked the visitor if he wished 
to take her friend away from under her roof, before she was 
quite recovered. He explained that it would be better to have 
her among those of her own Faith, so that in case of fatal con- 
sequences she would be looked after as Christians wished to 
be, at the hour of death. “ How did you discover — I mean 
suspect that Irene was with me?” asked Pontia falteringly of her 
unexpected and unwelcome visitor. “ By the merest accident,” 
answered the visitor. “ We have been looking for her above a 
month ; and I confess, it surprised me that you, her old friend, 
did not let us know what had happened to her before this.” 
Pontia's facility for lying furnished her with a reply to this 
unanswerable rebuke. “ I wrote a letter,” said she, without 
hesitation and seemingly heedless of the fact that her visitor 
knew she was fabricating, “ I wrote it and had not the heart to 


240 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


send it to you, as I felt it would break’so many hearts : — a sob. 
She came here under such suspicious circumstances — ” She 
could proceed no further, but looked ruefully at the ground as 
the obedient tears started to her eyes. Clement was angry ; but 
he controlled his temper, and said : “ Her character is stainless ; 
you need make no further apology. I shall hasten to remove 
her to our home.” “ If you think it is safe to do so, you are 
free to remove her at any moment,” said Pontia, drying her 
tears ; “ but,” she proceeded, “ you must not let my husband 
know that she has been here : he will return at nightfall.” 

Pontia did not know, could not guess, how her great secret 
was betrayed, though she racked her brains perpetually. One 
of the slaves had done it she was certain ; but which one? To 
question them would be useless. This is how it leaked out. 
The slave who was commissioned to prepare the poisoned 
draught for Irene, was one in whom Pontia reposed the utmost 
confidence. She was an old domestic, never manumitted, but 
never seemingly desirous of such an honor. She had nursed 
her mistress, and was her constant and faithful attendant, 
whenever she went abroad. If Pontia’s wicked life was an 
open book to her, it mattered little, so long as the rest of the 
world could prove nothing evil against that estimable lady. 
But slaves must have particular friendships as well as their 
owners ; and it so fell out — it is always so, unluckily for the 
wicked — that this old slave’s confidante was a young slave, who 
had recently been admitted to Baptism. Now when Pontia 
saw that the poison given to Irene failed to act promptly, she 
quarrelled with her old favorite, and beat her severely. Forth- 
with the hag hastened to the cellar and imbibed wine, the 
oldest and strongest there was, until she felt consoled for the 
temporary loss of her mistress’s favor. In her drunken 
garrulity she sent for her confidante, and abused her and the 
mistress by turns ; and among other things revealed to the 
horrified novice was the awful crime — partially carried out — 
against Irene. Without loss of time the young slave made 
known the facts to Clement, who, dissembling his knowledge 
of the attempted murder, approached Pontia in the manner 
related above. 

The visitor had been but a few hours gone when he returned 
to Pontia’s palace with four servants bearing a kind of palan- 


THE BIRD ENSNARED, 


241 


quin on their shoulders. As they approached they perceived 
that some trouble had occurred, and not knowing what it 
might be, they hurried on, fearing some ill might befall Irene. 
A crowd of boys and* men, and a few women, stood about the 
vestibule and on the steps, and would have forced their way 
into the house but for the efforts of a dozen strong slaves, who, 
armed with clubs and whips, kept guard against the un- 
warranted invasion. Within, occasional shrieks, clearly those 
of a female, were heard at intervals : they were hysterical 
shrieks accompanied by the loud angry words of a man. It 
was an awkward situation, and Clement stood perplexed, not 
knowing how to face it. But of one thing he was sure : that 
4he female voice he heard screaming was not Irene’s. After a 
few moments’ reflexion, however, he made up his mind, and 
•advancing through the crowd into the porch, accosted the slave 
who seemed to be in command of the others. “ I have come,” 
he said, “ to take away, with the lady Pontia’s permission, my 
friend Irene who is unwell ; perhaps you are aware of our ar- 
rangement ? I trust there will be no objection to my entrance,” 
he continued, a little sternly. He had resolved to call for the 
nearest quaestor and force an entrance if the slave’s answer 
were in the negative. But he was saved the trouble. The 
slave, who knew him, called him aside and was about to ex- 
plain to him something of the situation, when a courier rode up 
to the house and shouted “ a letter for the lady Pontia.” The 
letter was taken by a slave who disappeared with it in a mo- 
ment. Meanwhile Clement was informed that Tullius, who 
was not to be home before nightfall, had arrived rather unex- 
pectedly and surprised his wife sipping wine with a former 
rival. This caused the uproar. 

Suddenly the quarreling ceased, and the slave who had taken 
the letter from the courier up to his mistress’ apartment re- 
turned to learn the nature of the anxious Clement’s message. 
The message was verbal, and the slave departed. When he 
approached Pontia’s room the second time, a great change had 
come over both her and Tullius. She wore a terrified look and 
he was blanched, as if by a sudden fright. He was leaning 
against the wall, trembling, and firmly grasping the hilt of his 
sword, in order to control the nervous twitching of his fingers. 
She was sitting on a kind of sofa, her cheeks deathly pale and tear- 


242 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


stained, her liair hanging loosely about her face and shoulders ; 
and her left hand (which held a letter), trembled so violently as 
to threaten, if such a thing were possible, to go to pieces. The 
slave stopped, and listened. “ He is ddhd now,” said Pontia 
to her husband, “ and there is no further need of keeping the 
woman here. I only feared she would find out that he was 
still alive. She should have died two weeks ago, but the dose 
was not strong enough and she will wake up sooner or later.” 
“Yes,” replied Tullius, “your object is gained, now that Julius 
is murdered ; but what have I gained ? By Hercules ! by all 
Olympus ! if you had told me a month ago that woman was 
here, you would have needed no draughts nor sluggish poisons 
to be rid of her. But as in all the rest, in this too you hav# 
betrayed me,” and he hissed the last words between his teeth. 
“ You love Irene, I see it plainly,” said Pontia, in alow voice. 
“And you, monster, you are jealous of her, and you love Julius 
still,” replied the husband. “ It is of no use discussing the 
matter further,” said Pontia ; “ we have had enough of that, 
and our quarrel is, I fear, known to the whole neighborhood. 
But this — and she held up the letter — this is the sore work. 
We have hired an assassin, and who is he 1 His letter says he 
has done the work, but how do we know whether he will keep 
the secret 1 A terrible fear sweeps over me, and tells me we 
are betrayed.” “ I trembled the moment I saw the letter,” said 
Tullius ; “ burn it at once. I might have known,” said he, 
then, distraught, “that a murderess would not be a faithful wife;” 
then turning to her, “ you have dragged me into this shameful 
and dangerous business, the curse of the Furies betide you, 
and you .” The slave here stepped from his place of con- 

cealment into the room aud requested Pontia to receive his 
message. She tossed to her husband Servius’ letter, the letter 
which he had sent off the very day on which he threw Julius 
over the precipice. Then she left the room and closed the door. 
Of course, there could be but one answer for Clement ; but 
Pontia begged to be excused from appearing, as she had be- 
come suddenly indisposed. 

And now a|series of surprises were preparing for all concerned. 
When Pontia’s servants went to Irene’s room, she was no lon- 
ger aslefep, but preparing to leave it. They stared at her 
speechless, unable to answer her salutation. She could not uu- 


THE BIRD ENSNARED. 


243 


clerstand the cause of their fright, as they rushed away to tell 
their mistress ; aud would have followed them if not checked 
by Clement, who now appeared with his train. He was as 
delighted to see her revived, as Pontia was dejected, and Tul- 
lius was too much oppressed with the dread of punishment for 
his criminal complicity in the murder of Julius, to be much 
affected either way. Irene was very weak and very pale, but 
otherwise well enough and quite prepared to go back to her 
old home, though she was unable to interpret the mys- 
tery that hung over her departure from her friend’s palace. 
“ Come quickly,” said Clement, who perceived her perplexity, 
‘‘when at home you will learn all.” Her friend Pontia made 
no attempt to see her before she left, probably because her im- 
pudence had reached its limit, and she could not look her vic- 
tim in the face. 

Great was the rejoicing in the Clementine family when Irene 
arrived, not as they had been expecting to see her, unconscious 
— perhaps dying — but well, and able to converse with them as 
formerly. Her presence was like the balmy spring sunshine, 
when the bleak wintry winds are at rest. In a few days the 
roses returned to her cheeks, and she was able to hear unmoved, 
the tale of the wrong inflicted upon her by the treacherous 
friend. “And you tell me it is more than a month since the 
Triumph : coming from other lips I could not believe it,” said 
Irene. To her the period of the trance seemed like a long 
night, during which strange and weird visions and a few beau- 
tiful dreams flitted through her mind. But they left only a 
faint impression. She could not .recollect any scene connect- 
edly ; yet she remembered that once she saw a man in prison. 
It was Julius. With him was a priest whom she was unable 
to recognize, though she longed to know him. She was per- 
suaded that if she did not find out who he was, some dreadful 
mishap would befall ; and accordingly she strove in everyway 
to acquire the needful knowledge, but to no purpose. Julius 
could not inform her, nor could he save her from the impending 
evil. He seemed even indifferent to her — a fact which added 
to her sufferings. The ^nd came at last. She was shut up in 
a dungeon while some grewsome death was preparing for her. 
It was unlike any other torture ever before employed. But 
the intolerable part of her burden consisted in this, she could 


244 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


not tell who her executioners were, nor why they wished to 
make away with her. At length she saw them. They forced 
her to drink something nauseous, when all at once a ringing 
noise arose in her head, and continued growing in volume and 
intensity until she thought whole armies were treading with 
martial pace throiigh her brain. She awoke and looked about : 
it was past noon. “ How long I have slept,” she thought, and 
at once arose; somewhat ashamed of her slothfulness. “It was 
a long sleep,” remarked Clement, when she had finished her re- 
lation of the worrying dream, and the circumstances of her 
waking, “ a very long sleep, and one from which it is provi- 
dential you ever awoke.” 

The noise which woke Irene from her long and critical slum- 
ber, and that took such a hideous form in her dream, arose 
from the quarrel between the young people who had not yet 
completed their honeymoon. With such a lady as Pontia — 
and she was a type of the pagan Roman ladies of that day — 
marriage was by no means the death knell of flirtation. Her un- 
hallowed desire was as vigorous and promiscuous as ever ; and 
when detected in its pursuit by her husband, she told him 
plainly that he should look for no exclusive right to her heart. 
“ You have certain rights over my property,” said she defiantly, 
“but not over my heart. I will give that to whom I will, and 
just because I will.” Tullius might divorce her ; but would he 
succeed better in another marriage ? He knew that he was 
powerless. And she knew it. But what brought him home so 
unexpectedly on this unlucky day 1 Were his suspicions 
aroused by certain things that he saw ; or did some of the 
slaves maliciously betray the secret of their scandalous mis- 
tress 1 Perhaps his return was wholly accidental ; but how- 
ever it was, the precipitate flight of his rival through a window, 
alone prevented a murder in the faithless wife’s apartments. 
Tullius rushed madly about through the house, and into the 
room where Irene was kept. He recognized her immediately, 
and called loudly on his wife (who followed him about scream- 
ing and entreating), to explain how she came to be there. 
Whatever she answered, he became , almost frantic, furious 
though he was before. “ I could kill her,” he roared, brandish- 
ing his sword aloft ; “ yet I have not the courage to do it.” In 
a moment his love for her— the only woman he ever truly 


THE BIRD ENSNARED. 


245 


loved — was rekindled in his heart, and falling on his knees at 
her bedside, he sobbed, “ 0 Irene, Irene, you are virtuous, you 
are chaste, but your virtue has been my ruin — has driven me 
to marry a harridan.” “ 0 Tullius,” wailed the hysterical 
Pontia, “ do not call me by such names in presence of my 
slaves.” Her husband sprang up fiercely. “No, no^” he 
shouted, “ I may be wronged, made a laughing stock of before 
your household, and I can have no satisfaction. But I shall 
have it, by the eternal fires!” he added, lowering his voice 
ominously. “ I know your paramour and I will kill him.” It 
was at this stage of the quarrel that the slave bearing the letter 
from Servius approached. The reader already knows what fol- 
lowed. 

In a few weeks Irene was as busy as ever at her former oc- 
cupations. Many a thing had happened during the month of 
her trance that interested or amused her. But nothing pleased 
her so well, as to hear that prayers had been offered up every 
day for her, from her disappearance until she was discovered ; 
for she attributed to their efficacy her rescue from the cruel 
hands of Pontia, When she was told that a soldier had once 
inquired very anxiously for her, she concluded from the de- 
scription given by the servant to whom he had addressed his 
inquiries, that it must have been Servius. Who else could it 
be ? She trembled as she thought of him. Was he in the plot 
against her life 1 He seemed to have acted a most friendly 
part, and she had barely thanked him. He was to have called 
next day at Pontia’s house. Had he done so 1 Thoughts such 
as these worried her for a time, but Pontia’s treachery haunted 
her unceasingly. “ How dreadful,” said she, addressing the 
family one evening, when the events of that sorrowful month 
were made the subject of conversation : — “ The Apostle Paul 
could not have been more outspoken in condemnation of vice 
than Pontia.” And she recounted the terrible indictment 
drawn up against Koman society by the murderess. “ I be- 
lieved her to be an exception,” Irene continued, “a rare, rare 
exception — as there must be some — and I proposed to her the 
charms of Christian life. She turned away from me and 
changed the subject.” “ Perhaps,” said some one, she may 
yet receive the gift of faith and repentance for her crimes. 
God’s mercy,” said the Elder Clement, “ knows no limits.” 



CHAPTER XXII. 

THE PLAGUE. 

“ The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap ; 

The herdsman who climbed with his goats up the steep, 

• The beggar who wandered in search of his bread, 

Have faded away like the grass that we tread.’' 

t P all the virtues which the early Christians practised, 
none exerted such lasting influence as their unselfish- 
ness and charity. Full of suspicion, the pagans would 
not believe in the sincerity of Christian faith and hope, ho- 
nesty and chastity ; but they could not, if they would, close 
their eyes to the heroic sacrifices made by these down-trodden 
people in the cause of suffering humanity. Paganism left the 
foundling and the sick or deformed child to perish, and the old 
or infirm to die by the roadside ; while Christianity fostered the 
one and housed the other, without inquiring whether the vic- 
tim was an infidel or a disciple of the cross. With their own 
hands they tended the sick ; with their own substance they fed 
them. This was superhuman : it was charity. All recognized 
the facts. Some were drawn by them into the Church ; others 
were enraged by them against it. 

One day the sun was looking down upon the parched fields, 
and the dusty streets of the city — looking one of his fiercest 
looks — a look that meant vengeance and death. A few vege- 
table vendors and wine pedlars lagged along the streets, shout- 
ing out their wares to attract thd attention of the sleeping 
city, and hollowing untranslatable Latin at their sweating 
mules, which with hanging heads and drooping ears waddled 
along from one side of the road to the other, evidently unwil- 
ling to make the least unnecessary exertion. It was on the 
Palatine, and among the poorest of Rome’s poor that the first 
mule fell. He was beaten, of course, but this would not cure 


THE PLAGUE. 


247 


him. In a few minutes he died. crowd gathered about, 
mostly boys, some of whom facetiously prodded the carcase, 
and began to make fun of its owner, when lo ! he too fell, as 
they all said sunstruck ; and having turned black, in a few 
minutes breathed his last. Then a boy fell ; and his mother 
who was calling to him from an open doorway rushed out to 
to pick up the sick child, fell beside him, became black like him, 
and like the pedlar, and like the other boys, three of whom 
now lay in the road, and died. The whole neighborhood was 
by this time aroused, and while some ran in one direction to 
secure medical aid, others ran for the . sediles to have the now 
corrupting corpses removed, and others again locked them- 
selves in their houses, and closed the windows to keep out the 
horrible stench. No one dared to render assistance to the dy- 
ing. “ What is the disease 1 ’’ people asked in whispers ; for 
when real dread takes hold of man, he fears the sound of his 
own voice. “ What is it,” they asked, and called on their gods 
to defend them. Some gave it one name, others another ; but 
before the first physician who had answered the summons, 
dropped ^ead beside the child he came to relieve, he pro- 
nouriced the disease the plague ! 

And the plague it was surely. The plague that struck down 
the beast of burden, as it fed at the stall or toiled in the street ; 
the plague that tainted the cattle as they grazed in the browned 
meadows, or lowed for water in the dried up brooks ; the 
plague that discoloured the transparent flesh of the new born 
babe and turned its laughing eyes to hideous ulcers, under the 
very gaze of its frantic but powerless mother ; the plague that 
crept into the bridal chamber and changed the young bride to 
a grinning skull with carous teeth, from which the gums had 
dropped away ; the plague which stretched the brawny bread- 
winner on the cold earth, a blackened mass of fetid and worm- 
eaten rottenness ; the plague that brought down the proud 
senator to the level of the slave, the Pontifex Maximus or High 
Priest to that of his victim — alike a fever-breeding, soul-sick- 
ening nameless heap of putrefaction ; the plague that strewed 
the streets and the Forum, the temple and the hearth, the hall, 
the garden, the bridge, the tent, the field with piles of unburied 
corpses, from which the very carrion' birds flew away with 
loathing ; the plague, that in fine turned into a vast solitude 


248 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


the city of cities, and hushed its many-voiced hills into a si- 
lence like that of the sealed and vaulted tomb. 

Then it was that the Christians heaped coals of fire on the 
heads of their persecutors. The spirit of our Lord’s command 
to pray for one’s enemies — was never better illustrated than 
during this awful visitation. When fathers abandoned wives 
and children, and betook themselves to the country ; and when 
mothers, forgetting their natural instincts, left their young to 
perish while they fled from the destroyer, Christian priests and 
Christian maidens went about relieving distress, alleviating 
pain, caring for the helpless sick, and burying, as best they 
could, the forgotten victims of the direful scourge. Ah, how 
many a saint, whose name is not emblaaoned on calendars, 
nor venerated at altars where incense rises in hallowed 
clouds ; whose praises are not sounded in anthems, nor spoken 
in panegyrics abounding in wreaths of imagery — spent his 
strength amid the nauseating exhalations of the sick room, or 
the mephitic vapors of the charnel house. How many a priest 
poured the saving waters of Baptism on the forehead of the dy- 
ing man whom his benevolent labors convinced of the Divi- 
nity of his faith ! How many a minister of God bore the dead 
on his shoulders to a place of burial, then fell fever-smitten be- 
side the grave, and gave up his pure soul, far from his friends, 
with none to shed a tear, nor smoothe by a kind word or look 
his lone passage into eternity ! 

Who is your bloated scoffer that bids us enjoy life, and tells 
us that he neither believes in nor hopes for a future state 1 
Generally he who has all he wants, and is as yet a stranger to 
disease. He is your purse-proud agnostic, your epicurean in- 
fidel who wallows in the mire of his passions, and has no heart, 
no feeling for his brother who is down. Perhaps he has never 
seen misery. Let him then go, if he will, into a fever or 
plague smitten locality. Let him enter the single little room, 
dirty and squalid, where lies on a mat stretched upon the floor 
the father of a family, shouting, moaning, cursing, perhaps 
laughing — an idiotic laugh — in his delirious exaltation, as the 
large beads of the death moisture trickle adown his sallow, 
sunken features into his gnarled and frowzy beard. Let him 
then turn to the children, the innocent children, too young, 
alas, to know what sorrow is. Listen to their heavy breath- 


THE PLAQUE. 


249 


ing ; hush ! One calls. Approach him ; he is dying. His 
little face is pinched, his eyes glazed, his nostrils distended. 
He is trying to breathe ; he wants air. His little wasted hands 
are wandering over the tattered garments that cover him. He 
makes to turn his head — he gasps, listen — mamma ! The first 
word he learned to utter was his last. It is dark in this room ; 
let us take care where we tread, as there is another corpse 
lying about here somewhere. Here it is, scarcely cold ; yet 
the odor is unpleasant ; the air all about is impregnated with 
the heavy smell One look more before we leave, a quick 
glance. Yes, that is the mother in the corner. She is not frantic 
with grief, you say ; she is quite calm, and sways from side to side 
on the wretched broken chair. She has been for weeks here 
alone, nursing the sick ones — youn^ and old alike. She has 
had no sleep all that time ; and her eyelids are thick and red, 
and she hums and talks by turns, to herself — she is uncon- 
scious of all about her. Her reason is flagging, as well as her 
senses, and perhaps she is already insane. Who knows where 
insanity begins 1 Poverty, sickness, insanity, death ! What 
monsters, that some must be familiar with F Show this picture* 
of horrors — and they often happen without) any fault of those 
who suffer from them — show this picture in all its cruel vivid- 
ness of real coloring to your infidels, and bid them test their 
crude, savage theories in its presence. If they are men and 
have hearts, they must feel how shallow are their sceptical fan- 
cies that can neither give a reason for the existence of pain and 
sorrow, nor afford the innocent sufferer any consolation what- 
ever. Modern infidelity, which is only adoration of self, is, in 
presence of human suffering, just what paganism was. It is 
boastful, cowardly, heartless, inconsistent. The religion of 
Christ is never seen to advantage, except when, like her Divine 
founder, she is going about doing good, healing the sick, feed- 
ing and clothing the poor, in a word, stooping to alleviate every 
form of human woe. Christian morality and doctrine too often 
offend the sentiments and inclinations of worldly men, who are 
in the enjoyment of health and wealth ; but what consolation 
does not the doctrine that there is to come a life of endless 
bliss bought by the Man-God bestow on the majority of the 
human race — the toilers, the weak, and the needy ! The scan- 
dal of the few, the proud and wealthy few, is balm for the 
P 


250 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


hurts, food for the hunger, and drink for the thirst, of the 
countless millions of the world’s despised poor. 

During the dreadful plague that swept the inhabitants of 
Eome from the palaces of the rich and the hovels of the poor 
into the same unburied heap, Irene went about like an angel 
of hope, ministering to the wants of those who were forsaken 
by their dearest relatives and nearest of kin. Many a departing 
soul breathed a prayer to the God whom they learned through 
her to adore, asking a blessing on her charity ; but, alas, she 
also heard from dying lips, many an imprecation against false 
friends and against the chastening Hand that wielded the awful 
scourge. Often she went into stately mansions through open 
and unguarded doors, and passing over the corpses of the 
slaves, found the rich owner breathing his last on the floor. In 
one instance, the victim had fallen from the bed and lain there 
helpless as an infant. He had called for help — she heard him 
from the street — but the slaves, whom he had promised their 
freedom and much wealth besides, if they would remain and 
help him, were dead, and lying yonder in the porch. To mois- 
ten with a drop of water the cracked and bleeding lips was all 
the good Irene could do for him and a look of gratitude from 
the sightless eyes which he turned towards her, was her only 
earthly recompense. In another case, the floors of the house 
were of precious marble and life-like frescos decked the walls 
and ceiling, from which hung golden lamps — the light still 
burning, through the hour was noon. Furniture the costliest, 
adorned every room, and statuary of bronze and of marble 
smiled or frowned in every corner. Everything was still within, 
not a single sound broke the sepulchral solitude. Three slaves 
lay dead between the porch and the atrium, two more near 
the lord’s bedchamber. His right hand clutched a bag of gold 
and silver coins, some of which lay about him on the floor where 
he fell. In another part of the house lay the mistress on her 
left side, both of her hands pressing to her breast a small statue, 
one of her household gods. From her ears large pieces of flesh 
were torn away by some one who, perhaps while she was yet 
alive, stole the precious eardrops ; and several nf her fingers lay 
about the floor, evidently cut off by the same thief, in his 
effort to secure her rings. In the kitchen, a servant, a stout 
middle aged female, lay dead upon the hearth. The fire was 


THE PLAGUE. 


251 - 


extinct, only a few live embers remaining : their latest fuel was . 
the head and right arm of her who had fallen helplessly upon 
them. Irene passed through the rooms of this house in search 
of anyone who might still be alive ; she found no one. She 
turned to leave, and as she passed out into the street, she 
noticed that the left hand of one of the corpses she had passed 
in the porch, clutched a brilliant. She stooped and looked 
more closely, and saw a piece of flesh clinging to it. This was 
the robber who had enjoyed his booty only a few steps beyond 
the scene of his crime. Perhaps he was a slave who had been 
harshly treated by his mistress, and sought some redress in this 
cowardly way ; perhaps on the contrary, he had been well 
treated ; but avarice stifled generosity or gratitude. It may be, 
he was a stranger, one of the many who, inflamed with- the rich 
wine they took undisturbed from choicest cellars, went about 
regardless of consequences, plundering the effects of defenceless 
proprietors. Such as he might be seen in every street, dying 
or dead, but even in death holding fast his stolen property ; 
gold or silver, precious stones or precious garments, whatever 
in a word, he hoped to escape with or turn to advantage. 

During one of these sad visitations, Irene entered a house in 
which she heard loud wailing. She did not advert to its lo- 
cality, nor recognise the enormous vases which graced the en- 
trance. It was as if she had never before been here. Yet this 
was the scene of many a plot and many a crime ; of many a 
debauch and many an intrigue. Need we tell the reader, Irene 
stood once more under Pontia’s roof? Yes, dear reader, this bold, 
bad woman was among the victims of the pestilence. On its 
first appearance, several of her slaves were taken ill and died off 
suddenly, but she was' spared and most of her household. She 
was an infidel, but she placed her house and property, as a safe 
guard, under the protection of Apollo. She saw the ravages of 
the epidemic, and grew hardened as they spread. Though she 
laughed — it was the fashion — at the superstitions of her day, 
danger moved her to moderate the smile. She had the satis- 
faction of hearing of the death of all her rivals save one ; and 
as she one day risked a drive through the city, she was gratified 
beyond all expectation by seeing this last rival’s corpse in the 
street and driving over it. But this was to be the term of her 
triumph. Her favorite slave was first cut off, at a time when 


252 


IRENE OE CORINTH. 


she felt confident her house was safe from further attack. Tlien 
her paramour, whom she had a month before induced with 
bribes to murder hef husband, the unfortunate Tullius, fell at 
her feet as he came to announce the success of his horrible 
undertaking. He had assassinated Tullius in the public baths, 
and escaped to tell the tale — and perish miserably. Pontia 
would have wished to throw herself on the body and weep, 
but the noisome stench repulsed her. She sickened and went 
to her room. She called for her servants, but they ran from 
the infected mansion, each carrying away some article of value. 
Some escaped with their booty, others fell victims to the ma- 
lady, even before they reached the doorway. One slave alone 
remained alive about the premises, the one whom Pontia had 
stabbed with a poniard. She was a Christian, and the one 
who had made known the murderous designs of her mistress on 
Irene. Her wound had recently reopened and she lay sick in 
a distant and dismal outhouse. She heard the cries of her 
mistress for help, and, weak as she was, arose and went to her 
room. The unfortunate Pontia shrieked when she saw the 
woman she had so cruelly wronged, and shrunk back to the 
farthest part of the bed. “ G do not murder me," she cried im- 
ploringly, as her eyes met those of the slave ; “ they have all 
gone from me, and I am alone, dying. Do not murder me, and I 
will free you, good Serva ; I shall make you wealthy if you will 
not kill me." It was a sad sight, to see the proud and powerful 
Pontia, cowering before the slave she had stabbed, and with 
outstretched arms entreating her to pardon and forget the past. 
The slave burst into a passion of tears ; for the plight of her 
unfortunate mistress excited her tenderest sympathy." “ Oh 1 
no, my mistress," she exclaimed with passionate emphasis, as 
soon as she could recover her speech, “ I am weak and sick, but 
you own whatever service I can perform. Oh ! how could you 
believe me such a wretch as to kill you 1 " For many weeks 
Pontia suffered, not from the plague, but from a malignant 
fever, and her sole attendant was the faithful Christian Serva. 
Often the wretched woman cried out for death to release her 
from pain, and besought the slave to kill her or furnish her 
with the means of killing herself. She was in despair. Irene 
found her in one of these sad fits of despondency and recognia- 
ing her, approached softly and with tender words sought to 


THE PLAGUE. 


253 


assuage her suffering. For a long time the murderess did not 
know who was speaking to her ; but when the sweet face of 
Irene came back to her through the thick clouds which over- 
spread her failing memory, she fainted away with a scream. 
That face brought her a new agony ; and in the awful depth of 
her despairing remorse, she found a still deeper depth, when 
the remembrance of her cowardly attack on Irene now forced 
itself upon her. “You come to laugh at me in my dying mo- 
ments,” she cried when she recovered partial consciousness. 
“Could you not let me die alone, in peaca” “ Not in peace, 
either,” she continued, addressing Irene, but without daring to 
look at her, “ not in peace, but in my own misery, in my own 
despair. Leave me, leave me ; you look like my sister who is 
ever haunting me. I killed her,” she went on, her nervousness 
increasing at every word, “ I poisoned her, I killed J ulius, and 
Tullius, and my babes ; and now they are all coming back to 
grin at me with their horrid, toothless, eyeless faces. Leave 
them to me and myself, Irene ; away, leave me.” As she said 
this she fell back on her pillow exhausted. Had Irene been a 
vindictive woman, what pleasure would not such a scene afford 
her 1 but she was not. She remained at the bedside of the 
wretched Pontia, and strove to convert her to a change of 
heart, but all to no purpose, Pontia, however, saw i,hat' she 
had nothing to fear from the woman whom she once wished to 
make away with, and at lucid intervals during her delirium, 
she would beg her forgiveness. But she would not listen to a 
word about. Christianity, nor call upon God to pardon her. In- 
stead, she implored them to offer a pagan sacrifice for her. 
Her end was fast approaching, and she wished to impart some 
secret to Irene before she should die. The feeling grew upon 
her, as she neared eternity — pagan though she v-as — that re- 
paration for her crime was i-equired. “ I cannot undo all my 
wickedness,” she said, as she seized Irene’s hand, “ but I must 
make you” — she faltered ; her eyes were fixed and the black 
hue of the fever was discoloring her fair but wasted brow. 
With a great effort she cleared her throat and proceeded, “I 
cannot see you Irene, but I want to tell you how I wronged 
you. Julius ” — Irene started : What mystery was this 1 “I 
hear you, Pontia, go on.” “Julius, your Julius did not die in 
Palestine ; Servius deceived you. Do you hear 1 ” gasped the 


254 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


dying murderess. “ I do,” replied Irene faintly ; she was hardly 
able to stand, but she struggled with her feelings, and bore up, 
“I hear.” “ My husband hated Julius, his rival for my hand, 
and he employed Servius to kill him in the camp in Gaul.” 
Her voice grew faint and husky, and her breath came quick 
and heavy. She went on, her grip tightening on the hand of 
Irene, “ he threw him down into — a — rocky — steep — ” Irene 
heard no more, she fell fainting to the floor. The murderess 
lay a few moments breathless ; then, with a piercing shriek, 
which re-echoed through every room in the house, she leaped 
up, flung her hands high in the air, and fell out of the bed a 
corpse upon the prostrate Irene. Serva lifted her mistress up, 
replaced her on the bed, and proceeded to carry Irene from the 
room. 

For several weeks after this Irene lay sick of a fever, caught 
in the exercise of her charitable ministrations and intensified 
by the shock the above revelations ^ave to her system. Dur- 
ing this illness qne of the priests was called in by her friends, 
and, at her own request, to anoint her with oil. This unction 
he performed in the presence of the assembled household, who 
knelt by the bedside of the sick woman and joined in prayer 
with her. It was night when the priest came, and large waxen 
tapefs which burned with a calm and clear flame gave a hal- 
lowed light to the apartment. Above the bed was a carved 
image of our Lord, attached to a rude cross, and at one side 
hung- a picture which represented St. Peter crucified, head 
downwards, and his brother St. Andrew attached to a pecu- 
liarly shaped cross, ‘surrounded by a large concourse of people. 
These pictures showed the fearful kind of death endured by 
these two Apostles; but far from exciting . disgust or terror, 
;hey stirred up in the hearts of the Christians who beheld 
them, an ardent desire to suffer tortures or even death itself 
in the cause of Jesus Christ. What a contrast this scene pre- 
sented with Pontia’s death-bed. Here there were tears, but 
the sorrow of parting was tempered by the assured hope of 
future meeting ; there, abounded bitter wailings, despairing im- 
precations. Here all was peace, a forecast of heaven ; there all 
unrest, a prelude of hell. 

But Irene was destined to live a little longer ; and from the 
time she received the Body of Christ and was anointed with 
the Holy Oil, she sensibly and rapidly recovered. 



• CHAPTER XXIII. 

PERSECUTION. 

S HE plague had ceased at Rome ; but another scourge 
awaited at least a portion ot its inhabitants. Although 
the Christians had shown themselves the only humane 
people abroad, for they alone cared for the sick and buried the 
dead, not only their own, but strangers, the pagan heart of the 
nation was not moved by the spectacle to better deeds. In a 
short time the good works of Christian priests and people were 
forgotten, and the old slanders were revived against them. In 
fact the pagan priests, who were put to shame by the heroism 
of the followers of the cross, began to whisper abroad that the 
plague, as well as the recent fires, and the eruption of Mount 
Vesuvius, were results of the Divine anger towards a people 
who tolerated the atheistic Christians to live unscathed among 
them. “Banish, burn, annihilate the followers of the cruci- 
fied Jew,” they used to say, “ and the gods will once more be 
propitious.” And the ungrateful Romans believed this blas- 
phemy, and Maximin decreed a new persecution. Now, Irene, 
as soon as she was able to think quietly of the mysterious 
words of Pontia, felt that she might possibly trace the mur- 
derer of her lover and find out something to solve the strange 
problem before her. Who was Servius, and where was he ? 
These two questions must first be answered before she could 
proceed. It seemed to her that he was identical with the soldier 
who gave her up to Pontia ; but where was he? She was one day 
thinking thus when Serva visited her, and among other things 
told her that she had overheard the plot to murder Julius. She 
was ignorant as to the identity of Julius then, and of course had 
to keep the secret. Now that Irene was interested in him, she 
did what she was able to promote the lady’s inquiries, and 
after a time learned of the death of Servius in Gaul. This 


256 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


news closed one avenue of information, and it only remained to 
find out in some indirect way, the particulars of Julius’ death. 
It would have been easy to do this if Irene would but 
confide the matter to any man in power or even to Clement. 
But she would never consent to this ; and had not the 
accidental revelation been made in presence of Serva by her 
dying mistress, the whole world would have remained ignorant 
of her secret. Already the mutterings of the not far distant 
thunder of persecution were audible in the city, and occasional 
flashes in the lurid sky foretold the violence of the coming 
storm. The clergy were appointing secret places of meeting, 
and the catacombs were once more to be tenanted by the silent 
worshippers who fled from the rack and torch of the execu- 
tioner. 

At length the storm broke. The pagan priests urged their 
devotees to hound down the objects of their jealousy, and the 
magistrates gave rewards to those whp would bring Christians 
before their- tribunals. Secret envy and avowed dislikes now 
found an • occasion to vent themselves ; and many a martyr 
won his crown through a grudge long nursed by a pagan 
neighbor. The prisons began to fill ; and the Coliseum began 
to witness the heroic struggles of the mh,rtyrs. This great 
edifice was recent ; Vespasian, not knowing, perhaps, what to 
do with so many captive Jews, set several thousand of them 
to work upon it. With its materials, and on its floor, they un- 
willingly mixed their sweat ; but a few years after, the martyrs 
joyfully sanctified its arena with their blood. While the per- 
secution lasted, the prayers of priests and people redoubled, 
and they were recommended, while avoiding arrest on the one 
hand, to keep themselves ever ready for that severest test to 
which a man’s belief can be subjected. In the concealed 
chapels of the Cataconabs, the sacrifice of the altar was daily 
offered up, and the weeping worshippers adored, with bated 
breath, the Son of God, who, under the sacramental species, 
visited them in their sorrows, and brought strength and con- 
solation to their sore-tried spirits. Before the elements of 
bread and wine were presented to the priest who officiated, the. 
deacons attending him would read a chapter from the Old 
Testament, generally from the Prophets. Then a portion of the 
Gospel would be read, and a homily thereon delivered by the 


PERSECUTION. 


257 


Bishop, who sat in the farthest part of the apse. Those who 
were under instructions, but not yet baptized, were not per- 
mitted to witness what followed, but withdrew from the 
church proper, and remained in the porch. Then the mystic 
words were pronounced over the bread and wine, the dim 
light of the tapers would be obscured by a cloud of sweet 
smelling incense, which rolled upward, and floated about the 
rough-hewn ceiling, as the prayers it represented sped aloft to 
the height of God’s high throne. After a number of prayers 
were read in secret, the Lord’s Prayer would be repeated 
aloud by the clergy and people ; and after this, all the clerics 
and most of the laity present would advance towards the altar 
to receive the Bread of Life, and drink of the Chalice of Bene- 
diction. 

As Irene one day approached the altar, she was struck by 
the resemblance of one of the priests to her brother Cyprian. 

It was a fugitive thought, and she put it away as a distraction. 
Nevertheless, it frequently occurred to her during the remain- 
der of the service-; but she would not raise her eyes to exam- 
ine the priest’s features a second time. She did not know who 
this priest was, and the next time she was in the chapel, he 
was not there. Some one, however, heard that a young priest, 
from Africa, had preached elsewhere a few .weeks before. 
They did not know his name. Many recollections of past pos- 
sibilities and realities came welling up from the fresh spring of * 
her memory, as Irene, from time to time, saw the face in her 
mind’s vision. But though it thus affected her, no thought of 
further inquiry suggested itself to her. That her dear brother 
was living, and actually in Rome, was so far from shaping it- 
self as a possibility before her, that the nearest approach she 
made to such a thought, was the mental exclamation, “ how like 
him,” which, however, never took the form of words. Unosten- 
tatiously she fulfilled her exercises of devotion and charity, the 
battle sometimes requiring heroic courage. It was necessary 
to visit condemned Christians in prison, for instance, to gather 
their last wishes, or to offer a word of sympathy and encour- 
agement, on the eve of their execution. Again, it was cus- 
tomary for some Christian to be present to witness the last 
struggle, to collect relics of the martyrs, or to obtain possession 
of the body in order to give it Christian burial. In all these 
trying situations Irene was the first to offer her services. 


258 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


Once she visited the Mamertine. The first she saw after 
passing the guards was the robber, or pirate, who had de- 
tained her a prisoner at Cunue. The recognition was mutual. 

“ You suppose,” said he to the astonished Irene, “ that I am 
here charged with the crime of piracy. I am not, I am a 
Christian.” “A. Christian,” Irene repeated with increasing 
surprise. “ The day you escaped,” he continued, “ a body ^ 
of men were in pursuit of me and mine, while a fleet scoured ’ 
the waters of the bay in search of our cave. The men 
whom, you perhaps, saw, were baffled, as any one would be, 
who looked for the land entrance. But the little girl whom 
you saw with us, betrayed us to those on the water, and we 
were taken and put in chains. The uncle of the little girl was 
the commander of the vessel. He sailed for Pompeii ; but the 
vessel foundered and the child and I alone escaped. I was 
rescued by a Christian, whose courage and kindness surpassed 
any virtue I believed to exist in the world. He shared his bed 
and his food with me, and, as he was a fisherman, these were 
poor enough. His example forced me to love his creed, and I 
soon after gave up my wicked life and became a Christian. 
For a long time I have been the victim of lung disease, and 
though you may think I would long for death to get rid of my 
sufferings, which this cold, damp dungeon increases tenfold, I 
must confess I have become very cowardly, and fear the least 
pain.” “ What became of the child 1 ” asked Irene, whose 
memory had often gone back to that innocent face. “ The child,” 
said the converted pirate after a severe fit of coughing, “ is 
with its parents, I hope. I had her sent back to Alexandria, 
from which city we stole her, to the merchant Arbax, her 
father. I have never since heard whether or not she arrived 
there safely, but I did my duty to the best of my power, and 
may the Lord pardon me the rest.” Irene encouraged him to 
bear up for a few days, and end as bravely as he began. But 
the poor man was dispirited^ — broken ; and his mind was wan- 
dering, and when the trial came he denied his faith. Some 
time after, Irene again saw him entering a wretched hovel. His 
form was stooped, and he crept along leaning on a stick. She 
followed him. He was ashamed to meet her gaze, but he en- 
treated her to send a priest to him to absolve his scandalous 
apostasy. Irene' informed a priest, who, under the garb of a 


PERSECUTION, 


259 


beggar, visited and consoled the few remaining hours of the 
*dying man. His fall was the effect of weakness of will, or 
perhaps even of mind, as his occasionally wandering talk would 
leave room to infer ; but his repentance was real and sincere, 
and grief for the crimes of his former life cost him more pain 
than the spasms of his fatal illness. He was not worthy of 
the martyr’s crown, but that of the penitent thief was not de- 
nied him. 



CHAPTER XXIV. 

THE rival’s success. 

& STEEP wall of hideous gray granite several hundred 
feet in heightj at its foot a sloping embankment, 
covered with very green grass and water cress ; a 
running stream still white from its raging conflict with the 
rocks at a sharp turn beyond there at the right ; at the left, 
twenty feet away, a cloud of snow like vapor rising from 
another steep precipice over which the stream has plunged in 
order to reach the plain it seeks ; an occasional stump stick- 
ing out of a cleft • here and there in the rock ; then a broken 
picket line of pines and oak, reaching from the embankment to 
the top of the granite wall before you ; imagine yourself in 
such a place as this, dear reader, almost blinded by the nlist, 
the upper part of which appears floating like a cloud far up on 
high, gilded by a halo of sunlight : the wind howling savage- 
ly, and the din of the tumbling water reducing you to deaf- 
ness. Then imagine, if you can, a human form suddenly fall- 
ing from yon high peak and disappearing among the trees. 
Branches are broken ofiF and come rattling down to. your feet ; 
while a storm of detached leaves are carried eddying about, 
and scattered in every direction. What a cold thrill of horror 
would shoot through your very marrow, and you would almost 
curse the blast which purposely, you think, carries the mist 
right in front of you, shutting off your view. How your heart 
throbs till you solve the enigma, how he fell and what has be- 
come of him. Of course he is crushed to a pulp. It cannot 
be otherwise ; but you, nevertheless, hurry off to find out. You 
scramble over the loose stones, and jump across the stream, 
and clamber upon the emerald embankment, before a counter 
wind scatters the mist away to your left, and you can see dis- 


THE rival’s success. 


261 


tinctly into the trees and underbrush. You listen, but it is 
useless. You can hear no human voice above the combined 
roar of the wind and ^vaters. So you beat your way through 
the tangled twigs and brambles and mount as high as you can, 
You then look into the trees, all of which seem to grow out 
horizontally from the plecipitous rock, and then turn upwards. 
You see something hanging limp perhaps twenty feet above 
you. It is J ulius ! His clothes are nearly all torn from his 
back ; his face is streaming with blood, and one of his arms 
lies twisted in such a way that you know it is broken. But is 
he dead i You stoop and listen for his breathing or moaning. 
Useless again ! You place your hand on his breast, and 
his heart is beating. “ Thank God,” you say “ he is 
not dead at any rate.” Apd if you really had been there 
when J ulius reached his present position, you would doubt- 
less carry him down to the water and bathe and bind his 
wounds ; but no one so kind as you was there ; so Julius lay 
unheeded, except by a vulture that eyed him from above, 
and revolved in ever narrowing circles in the air, waiting for 
his death, in order to pounee upon and devour him. He lay there 
insensible to the gloom of the ravine — no merry sunbeam ever 
reached that spot — lay until far in the night. Then he awoke 
and gradually recovered, first his sensibility and afterwards 
his reason. First, he became conscious of a dull pain in the 
head, then in all his limbs, and in time he strove to raise his 
right arm, which lay broken and twisted under him. The sud- 
den pain caused by this exertion brought back his full concious- 
ness. It was a long time before he dared to move again, he' 
simply lay there and groaned. He did not know whether it 
was night or day until looking directly upwards he saw some 
twinkling stars. He then understood that he had fallen over 
the precipice. Finding that his left hand was free, he groped 
about, and after awhile essayed to rise to a sitting posture. As 
he did so, he felt the bones of his broken arm, which hung 
useless at his side, crunching against each other, causing him 
untold suffering. By degrees his eyes became accustomed to 
the darkness ; but all they could make out for him were the 
sullen rocks and trees towering far above him, and the water 
rushing along (a mile, it seemed) below him. Persons accus- 
tomed to travel at night, know how they will be deceived as to 


262 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


the depth of even the little inequalities in a clay road. Had 
Julius known how easy it was to reach the stream in safetj', 
he would have at once descended the little embankment to re- 
fresh himself ; but he was afraid to move, and in his utter 
helplessness he lay down again, and fell asleep. It was broad 
daylight wlmn he awoke, and this time, although he saw disap- 
pear the dangers he had feared during the night, others arose 
which were not a whit less threatening. His broken arm had 
swollen to a huge size, the deep cut in his forehead was aching 
furiously, the blood began to ooze from the clot which covered 
it, and his whole frame had become so stiff, by exposure to the 
cold night air, that it was extremely difficult .for him to move 
about. How then would he hope to climb the rocks in order 
to /each the camp ? Would thejtever think of coming to look 
for him in such a place ? Something must be done though, 
and done quickly. First of all he gathered the torn fragments 
of his clothing, which blew about here and there with the wind, 
and bound his broken arm to his body so as to keep it from fur- 
ther mischief. His sword was gone, but what would it avail 
him if an enemy were to come upon him in his present weak 
condition 1 Without letting difficulties of this kind, however, 
annoy him, he turned and followed the course of the stream in 
hopes of finding some part of the walls of the ravine less steep 
than where he stood. Toilsome was his search, and fruitless, 
worse than all. His pains increased with his fever, his fever 
with his exertions j and when at last his remaining strength 
gave out, he found that he could never hope to climb out of 
his rocky prison house.* Death stared him in the face, death 
without honor, without glory. The thought maddened him, 
“ gods,” he cried, in his dejection, “ Why cannot I face danger 
like those Christians, why can I not believe as they do.” He 
might have gone into a long reverie hereupon, as he was accus- 
tomed to do .when these grave thoughts came into his mind, 
but that mind was too feeble now. It refused to think except 
of his sufferings, and of these only in a half conscious way. He 
sat down on a huge boulder and leaned against a decaying 
stump for support. A few wild berries grew near him, and he 
plucked and eat them. Above him and beyond his reach he 
saw a species of vine, the fruit of which looked like grapes. 
He longed for a draught of wine ; and as a child will stand 


263 


TttE Rival’s success. 

and stare something it likes, but cannot get possession of, so 
J ulius sat and looked up at the vine with an anxious, wistful 
look which brought him little consolation. But that vine 
saved his life. Had he not been looking aloft^ he would never 
have seen the soldiers who were in search of him. They 
could not see him seated where he was, but he saw their sha- 
dows cast in giant magnitude upon the opposite wall. He sum- 
moned up all his strength— he never lacked courage — and went 
out where he could get a view of them, and they of him. They 
did not at first recognise Julius in the nearly naked form which 
beckoned to them ; they thought, in fact, it was some German, 
who had been separated from his comrades, or wished to lead 
them into an ambuscade. The illusion quickly vanished, how- 
ever, on a careful observation, and a number of men who were 
let down by means of ropes, were soon beside their commander, 
fully equipped to rescue him from his perilous situation. 
With proper attendance Julius recovered from his terrible 
fall ; but his arm was somewhat deformed, and he was pronounced 
unfit, for a time, for further military service. Who his assailant 
was, no one could surmise, though when the strange circum- 
stances attending the death of Servius were related to him, J ulius 
at once suspected him of the crime. Then the fatal scrap of 
paper which he found in the tent inhabited by Irene and her 
father, seemed to find an author in the same miscreant ; and by 
degrees Julius worked out a theory which was correct iu every 
particular, as the reader knows, that the black-hearted villain 
whom he had once foiled in the execution of his foul purpose, 
had become his evil genius through life. The horrible thought 
also crossed his mind that Servius had himself slain Irene, and 
left the blame on the Jew ; yet it never struck him as possible, 
that his betrothed was perhaps still alive. How weak is hu- 
man calculation, even the shrewdest ? 

As he would be a long time incapacitated to bear arms, Ju- 
lius gave himself up to the kind of life he often wished to lead : 
to be free to wander abroad into all countries 3 to study their 
habits, the origin of the inhabitants, their philosophy and 
their religion. This was the ambition of the soldier philoso- 
pher, and now he leaped at the fortunate opportunity, lest it 
would escape from his grasp, in some unaccountable way. 
Alone, then, with his satchel of manuscript authors strapped 


2G4 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


on his back, and dressed in the garb of a philosopher, for which 
he had laid aside the soldier’s uniform, he went forth through 
the forest-clad Cevennes and Auvergne, along the picturesque 
banks of the Rhone, the Loire and the Seine, and, notwith- 
standing the fatigue, even into the very heart of Britain, beyond 
the military mural boundary. How easy the traveller of our cen- 
tury finds even the longest journeys ! The telegraph prepares 
the way for him, and the fleet express rolls him comfortably from 
one city to another, while he can find lodgings to suit his means 
almost anywhere that the sound of the locomotive whistle is 
heard. Still rapid travelling has its drawbacks. The kaleido- 
scopic glimpses of country one snatches from a rail-car window 
hardly gratify the curious sight-seer, and furnish no clue to 
the history of the regions through which he seems to fly. But 
when one might cover at most fifty miles a day, and rarely so 
many ; when hotel accommodation was next to unknown, or 
rather when every house became an inn for him who had 
money, and every door was shut in the face of him who had 
none — and these were the days when Julius lived — one was 
able to see and speak to the people of the towns and villages, 
to observe them narrowly, and in a word, to study to perfection 
both their country and themselves. 

Over a hundred years had gone by since that wonderful man 
Julius Caesar had travelled through Gaul, and everywhere sifb- 
jected the poorly armed and worse disciplined barbarians to 
the Roman eagle. One hundred years ! What a long time, 
yet how short in the lifetime of creation ! During the ’parti- 
cular hundred years we speak of, what chaos came upon the 
world, and what strange results from chaos. Cncsar crossed 
the Rubicon, and Rome bowed to a traitor. Pharsalia crushed 
the ambition of his rival, and floated the bark of his own 
rising fortune on a sea of Roman blood ! Casca’s dagger rent 
the sails and Caesar fell. Then Antony ruled ; he conquered 
Caesar’s slayers, and was smitten by the charms of a lewd 
woman. After a deluge of Roman blood had been spilled, Aug- 
ustus rose to the surface, stemmed the torrent, seized the ship 
of state, and guided it into port. He smote Rome’s other ene- 
mies, then stole her liberties away. The whole earth sick and 
sore from strife, lay down at the feet of the illustrious tyrant, 
content to have peace at any cost. Then the Prince of Peace 


THE rival’s success. 


265 


was born into the world and the Star of Redemption shone in 
distant Bethlehem. Its light steadily increased and shed itself 
over the whole earth. J ew and Gentile, Greek and Barbarian, 
alike felt its powerful influence. While the vast Roman em- 
pire was prostrate before the victorious legions, or paid a heart 
less but showy respect to. the horrible monsters who bore the 
title of emperor, Christianity was quietly doing the work ap- 
pointed for it by its Divine founder. Society was all but ex- 
tinct ; the mission of the Church was to build up a new civili- 
zation upon its ruins. Only a hundred years ! And yet the 
greatest empire ever built up by man had in that space shown 
the most evident signs of its coming total disruption. Only a 
hundred years ! Yet in less than half that time, the greatest of 
revolutions — Christianity — had gained a permanent foothold 
in the world, and proved itself stronger than imperial arms . 
and edicts. 

Wherever Julius travelled this great fact stared him in the 
face. Among the tribes in Gaul, he discovered a great respectfor 
women, and an absence of those fearful obscenities that prevailed 
in the cities of civilization ; and he forthwith asked himself the 
question, what had the civilization he was used to done for 
those who came under its influence? The savages of the 
woods worshipped a Supreme Being of some sort, and be- 
lieved in a future state of rewards and punishments'; be- 
sides they were more sober and more chaste than the best 
educated classes of Rome. Now and again he came upon 
some who had been taught the doctrines of Christianity, and 
they were more upright and religious than their pagan breth- 
ren. He was thus able to see the contrast between the results 
of Christianity and Pagan civilization, or philosophy, in the 
most marked and exact manner ; and his mind was drawn to a 
conclusion ever more and more favorable to the proscribed 
religion. Merchants, who had been converted, taught the 
heavenly doctrine to their customers. Slaves taken in battle 
taught it to their captors and fellow slaves, and an occasional 
Apostolic preacher could be found, who had penetrated far 
into the heart of a country, in which nearly a hundred tribes 
fought for existence, and preached it to the princes and their 
courts. Sunny France was in those days perhaps as deserving 
of the title as to-day ; but neither in all her broad expanse* of 
Q 


266 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


level country, nor on the sloping hill-sides, could one see the 
creeping tendrils of the vine ; and the wines, which the wealthy 
Narbonese chose to exhibit as a delicacy at their banquets, 
were imported from below the Appenines. No single hand 
swayed the forces of that country then, no royal edict could 
direct the patriotism of its fiery-tempered inhabitants ; yet 
the apostles of the cross planted there the seeds of the tree of 
faith, that has blossomed and fructified so prodigiously ; and if 
France was at one time the grandest and most civilized of 
commonwealths, blessed alike with ciyil and religious unity, 
she owed her good fortune to the faith *of St. Denis. But the 
seed was sown in blood. In every city in the six divisions of 
Gaul, Julius found Christians arraigned before the magistrates 
for no other crime than professing the religion that taught 
them to become better citizens and better men. He often re- 
presented to the magistrates the inexpediency, not to speak of 
the injustice, of assailing one kind of religion, while all others 
were tolerated ; but these men (in many cases undergoing hon- 
orable exile) governed the distant provinces of the Empire, like 
the famous, or infamous, Varro. They thought of one thing 
only — the extension of their fortune. Human life — the deci- 
mation of the province, and such things were no business of 
theirs, and it was therefore most unlikely that they would 
make any recommendation to the Emperor in favor of the 
persecuted Christians. Pliny alone among the governors of 
the provinces was bold enough to broach the subject to his 
superior, and ask instructions ; and the answer he received 
was worthy of the cruel and shifting spirit of the paganism 
which dictated it. Now, however, when the new edicts of 
Domitian urged the magistrates to exterminate the disturbers 
of the peace of the empire, as the Christians were called, no 
reasoning in their favor would be listened to ; but all the 
engines of a refined cruelty were set in motion against them, 
J ulius hastened forward, and crossed into Britain. During his 
short stay in the Island, he came upon a Druids’ grove. The 
religion of the Druids flourished in Germany and in Britain 
from an early period. Like Brahminism in India, it preached 
a system of castes, or social grades, the highest of which was 
the priesthood. The Druids were the priests, lawgivers and 
physicians of the people. Their power was unlimited, and not 


THE rival’s success. 


267 


even the sovereign could resist it successfully. During the 
reign of Tiberius, Druidism was put down ; but it flourished 
in Britain and in Ireland in spite of the Emperors. Julius 
had read Cmsar’s account of the Druids, but now for the first 
time he saw one of their picturesque places of sacrifice. He 
approached the grove from the south, when the sun was bidding 
his farewell to mist-clad, earth. Nearest him were a few lofty 
pines on the outskirts of the oak forest. They stood in the 
still evening, their long, slightly swaying branches stretched 
out, and reaching upwards, as if in prayerful supplication. 
Now they seem, as the west wind sighs about them, to mourn 
over a stately comrade, whose lengthy, limbless, moss-cov- 
ered corse lies prone in the sands. Its upper portion is pil- 
lowed by stray leaves and cones, and a few arched branches 
of sister trunks that it grasped in vain for support, wrenched 
off in its despair, and buried in its fall. Now they rus- 
tle in whispering rebuke to the numerous offshoots which 
nod to one another with their tiny heads, or sweep irrev- 
erently with their waving plumes the parent trunk, as if in 
wayward sport ; while the wanton breezes toy with their baby 
cones, or kiss the distilling dew from their silky needles. As he 
advanced beyond these weird sentinels of the grove, the forest 
seemed to recede from his path, and form on each side what 
might be called the wall of an immense amphitheatre. Pass- 
ing a few large boulders which stood at the entrance, he soon 
reached the centre, from which the view was simply entranc- 
ing. All around and about him was a delicious level green- 
sward extending away to the very limit of his vision, where to 
the north an apparent glade divided the dark blue outline of 
forest, that was discernible on every hand. The numerous 
paths which seemed to diverge from the centre in several 
directions were bordered with a profusion of tiny white daisies 
and yellow buttercups which seemed to wrestle mirthfully 
with the long waving grass. They looked as if they wished 
to be seen, to delight the passer-by with their sweetness of 
color, of structure, and of odor, before being trampled down 
into their parent sod. The surface of the cleared space was 
ever so little undulating, and resembled the dead rolling of 
the ocean, long after the winds have returned to their cave. 
Nor did the suggestive similarity of the sea end here; for 


268 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


where the grass was knee deep, the action of the wind on its 
dark green blades brought up the resemblance to such a de- 
gree of perfection, that it became necessary, after observing 
the motion for some time, to use a violent effort to dispel the 
charming illusion that the wavelets were not rising and falling 
on the surface of genuine water. Two murmuring streamlets 
which united farther on, forming a little brook, appeared to 
complain of the well-worn rocks that here and there inter- 
rupted their gentle flow, and warped their course into irregular 
semicircular paths, or caused their deep but narrow waters to 
expand, under a sputtering protest, into broad and shallow 
lakelets. To the right, or directly before him as he stood fac- 
ing the sinking sun, the undulations in the soil grew into 
hillocks, and these again into hills, which were crowned by a 
species of heath ; and still farther on these irregular mounds 
melted into one vast wave of uprising land, about a hundred 
feet in height at its summit, where it lost itself in a wooded 
plain. . Here the oak forest seemed to sway ; and as each 
wooded plain rose above another like steppes, the farthest off 
at the horizon seemed a mere dull bluish mist, where only a 
few gigantic pines resented any confusion Jof their identity. 
Yet to the ordinary observer, they looked, standing out 
against the bronzed heavens, like fantastic minarets of an air 
constructed castle. * 

Lovely as the scene was to the eyes of Julius, to an old man, 
with a gray beard extending to his knees, who emerged from 
the ruins of the temple which once stood proudly there, it was 
the saddest of sights. He engaged in conversation with the 
Roman, whose language he understood but could not speak 
well, and explained how the grand temple which stood in the 
centre of the vast grove was levelled by the Emperor’s orders. 
“ Long grass grows now,” said he, “ where once there was a 
temple and an altar. These ruins are my home, who was 
once the chief priest of my caste ; yet I will pass my few fail- 
ing years here,” and he moved his outstretched right hand 
from side to side in a rueful way. As he spoke, a number of 
rabbits appeared hard by, but seeing the intruders on their 
solitary grounds, hopped away instantly out of sight. “ You 
must have good hunting here,” said Julius, as his fancy ran 
over the sport of a rabbit hunt, “ I almost envy your lot.” 


THE rival’s success. 


269 


The Druid stepped back with a look of horror, and held up his 
hands by way of holy protest. “ 0 sacrilegious man,” he ex- 
claimed, “ do you not know that these animals are sacred 1 
But you do not,” he continued reflectively, “the souls of my 
fellow-men are in them ; they are sacred. Our souls pass into 
the low animals first, then ascend through the higher and 
more intelligent forms, until at last, having expiated their 
guilt, they rise to the perfection of Divinity.” Julius laughed 
aside, recognizing in the Druid’s doctrine the Egyptian trans- 
migration of souls, and asked him if he had ever heard of the 
religion of Jesus. The Druid shuddered, and replied that 
somft of that faith were indeed ifi the islands, but were few in 
number, and likely soon to die out. “ They hate our gods,” 
said the old man, “ they are*atheists.” Julius parted with him 
remarking that it was more likely his religion would die out 
than that of Christ, judging from his own experience of the 
steadfastness of its votaries. One thing, however, struck 
him as worthy of notice in Druidism, it was the belief 
(which he had encountered the world over) that sin existed in 
the soul, and that it needed expiation. The discovery satis- 
fied him that the universal conviction regarding the existence 
of the soul, its undying nature, and its responsibility, was not 
an invention of priests, or kings, or any set of men whatever ; 
but an independent, spontaneous teaching of human nature, 
and therefore necessarily founded in truth and fact. 

As he retraced his steps and sauntered back to the village, 
his mind returned to the thoughts which had occupied it at the 
moment .when his assassination was attempted by Servius. 
That God would not create man as he now is, he felt assured ; 
and he further perceived the fact that death, and therefore all les- 
ser evils, were a punishment of some original fault. How it could 
be imputed to all men, he did not understand ; but there were 
many things in nature, such as the manner of his birth, the 
conversion of food into the substance of his flesh, and the like, 
which were at least as insoluble mysteries. And he moreover 
clearly understood that it was a surer, as well as a wiser phi- 
losophy, to secure by all possible means the promised immu- 
nity from sufiFering in the life to come, than brave the possible 
anger of the Deity, by discrediting things he did not under- 
stand, Plato had taught him “ to 6e virtuous and waif, for a 


270 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


Divine teacher," and it seemed to him that if the great Greek 
were now alive, he would examine with all seriousness the doc- 
trines of the only religious Teacher who «ver dared to call him- 
self God. 

But the arrival of a letter turned his thoughts to another, 
and hardly less serious subject. It was an unusually large 
letter, sealed and tied up with a strong string. It bore 
the seal of the Eoman general, and came from the camp he 
had left many months before. He hurriedly broke the seal and, 
as he opened it out, a second letter inclosed within the folds of 
the first, dropped upon the floor. He cast a look at it, and 
without stooping to pick it up, began to read the one he held 
in his hands. It opened with a wish that the gods had fully 
restored his. health, etc, and thdn imparted the information 
that the general had, on the very day Julius left the camp, 
received a note from a lady at Eome, inquiring for the particu- 
lars of his death. “ That's Pontia," said Julius aloud, and he 
went on reading. Imagine his astonishment when he read that 
the lady’s name was Irene ! He leaped up, held the letter 
out at arm’s length, and looked again at it. Then he sat down 
and rubbed his eyes, held it firmly in both hands, and read the 
whole epistle over again. There was no mistake this time. 
He trembled so that he could hardly proceed. The letter went 
on to say that the general had answered the lady’s inquiry, by 
stating that J ulius, though badly hurt, was alive and away on 
furlough. The enclosed letter (which lay there on the floor 
unheeded thus far), arrived some days ago, and was forwarded 
with all haste. Julius read no more,but in an ecstacy of joy flung 
the general’s letter from him, and snatched up the neglected note. 
He looked at the superscription in Irene’s handwriting — it was 
as indelibly fixed on his memory as her features —and kissing 
the seal, he broke it carefully. 

Who will attempt to describe his feelings at that moment 1 
Who will portray the joy, the hopes, the fears, the pain, that 
one after the other then altogether swept his soul ? “ She is 

dead," he repeated, “ and yet she writes to me. What mys- 
tery is this 1 ” With a palpitating heart, and tearful eyes, he 
read the few lines it contained ; but few or many, it bore the 
signature which alone he worshipped. “ My Irene,” he would 
repeat, from time to time, as he went over and oyer the 


THE rival’s success. 


271 


writing, or passionately kissed or hugged it close to his 
heart. Who will dare to laugh at such seemingly senseless 
actions, or say with scornful accent that they were unbe- 
coming in a man, and a soldier 1 They know not of the inten- 
sity of human feeling, nor how to prize the relics of love, who 
would thus moralize. They have not felt the deep pathos of 
the tenderest yet strongest passion of the heart ; the passion 
which, when directed towards a Divine ideal, once urged a king 
to dance before an ark. Blame not, then, the man — for what is 
man but the child with newer toys — blame him not, who, after 
a bereavement of years, finds that the idol of his first and only 
love has risen, like the Phoenix, from her ashes. 

The letter was cautiously worded, and evidently betrayed 
some doubt in the writer ; for, lik# Julius, Irene could scarce 
believe him to be alive, whom she had long mourned among 
the dead. “ If he who reads these lines is really Julius,” it 
read, “ he will know by this handwriting who I am ; and if he 
still cares for me, let him prove his identity by detailing the 
circumstances of our first meeting. My hand trembles as I pen 
these words, for I seem to see death leering at me. Joy, if 
withal I have found — excuse my emotion — it will be under- 
stood by my Julius, and pitied, or pardoned, by a stranger. 
Answer, I beseech you, and put an end to my doubts.” With- 
out delay Julius detailed the circumstances as required, and 
said a great many things besides, which it would be cruel to 
reproduce here, as they belong to a realm which it is not law- 
ful for others than lovers to explore. We may state this, how- 
ever, that Julius* promised to go to Rome by the shortest route, 
for fear of further obstacles ; and he kept his promise, or at 
least he began to fulfil it, for within a week he had left the 
British shores, and was travelling south through Gaul. But 
when he reached his old camp, he was commissioned to go at 
once into Spain to put down an insurrection of robbers. He 
was sufficiently recovered to take command of troops ; and al- 
though he wished tq go direct to Rome, he was the only one 
who could be trusted with so important a commission. Imme- 
diately he dictated another note to Irene, explaining the delay, 
reiterating his promises and pledging his fidelity, and set out 
for a country that was at this epoch not yet civilized ; where, 
as Pffitarch says, “ robbery was considered an honorable pur- 


272 


IKENE OF CORINTH. 


suit.” It was not intended that Julius should expose himself 
in battle, but simply give directions to his subordinates how to 
manage the campaign. On the day he set out he heard that a 
great Christian Bishop had suffered martyrdom in Paris, 
only a few leagues from where he lay. He so managed, there- 
upon, as to go by that city in his course, although somewhat out 
of his way. He learned that a large body of Christians lived 
in and about that ancient capital. Going to the jail where the 
martyr had been confined, he inquired into the history of 
the great Saint. It so happened that one of the jailers was a 
Christian, and on assurance that he would not be betrayed, he 
gave Julius the following history of Dionysius, the Areopagyte. 
“ The martyr,” said he, “ was a native of Athens. He once 
observed an unusual eclipse of the sun, and being learned in the 
movements of the heavenly bodies,he exclaimed, ‘ Either the God 
who made the universe is suffering, or nature itself is on the point 
of dissolution. When St. Paul afterwards preached the death of 
Jesus, whom we believe to be the Son of God, this philosopher 
remembered that the eclipse, which happened at the time of His 
crucifixion, corresponded with the one he had himself seen so 
unexpectedly ; and, turning to his friends of the Areopagus, he 
proclaimed to them the truth of the Apostle’s words. He be- 
came a Bishop, and was sent into Gaul to preach the Gospel. 
By his preaching many have come to know the truth, and our 
Prsefect, Fescennius, thinks that when he is dead we shall all 
become pagans again.” “ But you will not,” said Julius, in- 
quiringly, “We would follow him to death rather,” replied 
the jailer.” “But, sir,” he continued, “why .would you know 
so much about Dionysius, if you are not a Christian ? You seem 
interested — perhaps you knew him ] ” “ No,” said Julius, 

gravely, I did not know him ; but I am a philosopher, and there- 
fore interested in a philosopher’s fate, as well as in his belief.” 
“ Then you seem half a Christian,” said the other. “ Perhaps 
I am,” replied the soldier, with a faint smile. “ But tell me,” 
and his manner changed suddenly, as if an important thought 
had come to him, “have you any relic of the — martyr, you. 
would call him ? ” “I have a handkerchief steeped in his 

blood,”said the jailer, “but — ” “I would give you .” He was 

going to offer money for the relic, but the jailor anticipated 
him, and, cutting him short, replied : “ Sir, the relic is above 


THE EIVAL’S success. 


273 


price. I dare not traffic it for money ; but if I were sure you 
would respect the treasure, I would share it with you,” “ I 
promise on my honor, and I swear to keep it as carefully as 
you would yourself.” “ What could be the motive of such a 
request on the part of a pagan,” the jailer asked himself when 
J ulius had taken his departure. He was unable to answer, but 
he felt that the grace of God was working a conversion in the 
soldier’s heart. 

The journey was rapidly made into Spain, and it was a cause 
of great satisfaction to Julius to lead a body of Eoman troops 
over the very mountains, and through the same pass that was 
chosen by Hannibal, when, nearly four hundred years pre- 
viously, he led his victorious Africans into Italy. Caius Mar- 
ius, the famous consul, when governor of Spain, had a century 
before cleared his province of the bands of robbers who infested 
it ; but from time to time, their power grew strong enough to 
worry the government ; and in the present instance they had 
become so insolent, that they were promised a speedy extermi- 
nation. It was no easy task, however, to follow them into 
their mountain fastnesses, and track them through the virgin 
forests which covered that favored land ; but failure was un- 
known to Roman arms, once they undertook a work, no matter 
how great ; and on this occasion their speedy though hard- 
earned triumphs won for their commander new distinction and 
additional glory, 

As soon as his commission was fulfilled, Julius made for the 
straits of Hercules — the modern Gibraltar — and set sail for 
Ostia, Rome’s great seaport, with favorable winds only seven 
days distant. If the persecution was bloody in the provinces, 
it might be said to be devilish at Rome in the atrocity of the 
cruelties perpetrated on the Christians. All along the road 
from Ostia to Rome, it was the constant theme of con- 
versation, Some took a fiendish delight in relating incidents 
of the struggle ; others were more thoughtful, who, though 
themselves pagans, had lost beloved friends and relations, con- 
verts to Christianity. It now struck Julius, for the first time, 
as possible his betrothed might be included among the pro- 
scribed ; and a death-like feeling crept over him as the fear 
took shape in his mind, that perhaps Irene was already a mar- 
tyr, or on the way to martyrdom. And the malicious joke 


274 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


made at his expense by Servius, years before, in the camp at 
Palestine, that he might yet meet his beloved at the block, 
came back to his memory, and assumed a hideous reality, that 
made him start and grow pale. Just then he entered the city, 
and the first words he heard a ruffian say to his companions 
were, “ So that Irene will be examined again to day, and 1 
hope to see the magistrate act more like a man, and burn her.” 
Julius who thought every hour an age till he reached the city, 
was all on fire with expectancy, now that he was within the gate. 
He was trying to shake off the dread occasioned by his fearful 
fancies when those words grated on his ears. In an instant 
he was on the fellow’s throat with a bound like a tiger’s, and 
shaking him as he would a cloak, he roared rather than said, 
“ Villain, viper, who is this Irene you would see burned, is she 
a Christian ? Answer quickly ! ” The wretched man gasping 
for breath, answered that she was, and begged his assailant to, 
spare his life. The man was an athlete, and several pugilists 
stood around, but none of them would contend with Julius in 
his rage. With a terrific blow he laid the ruffian senseless on 
the pavement, and drew his sword to pierce the prostrate form. 
“ By the eternal fires,” he swore, “ who wishes to burn a Chris- 
tian is my enemy.” Then mastering himself, he put up his 
sword and hurried from the spot. 


CHAPTER XXV. 


THE BETROTHED IN THE ARENA. 


Non h il mondan rumor altro ch’ un fiato 
Di vento ch’ or vien quinci, ed or vien quindi 
E muta nome perche rnuta lato, 

— Dante, Purgatorio, Canto XL 

“ — The noise * 

Of worldly fame is but a blast of wind 

That blows from divers points ; and shifts its name, 

Shifting the point it blows from. — ” 

• —Cary's Translation. 

f HE family of which Irene had become a member was 
.very distinguished at Rome. Flavius Clemens was the 
associate of Domitian in the consulate, before the lat- 
ter became -Emperor, and was related by blood to the im- 
perial family. It was not to be expected, therefore, that such 
an eminent person would be the first to suffer for his faith, 
when the persecution began. But unnatural ^ it seemed, the 
brutal Emperor, as soon as he ascended the throne, summoned 
his kinsman before him, and accused, judged and condemned 
him with the most indecent haste. Flavius suffered death, his 
wife was banished from the city, and his property was confis- 
cated ’to the state, which meant the Emperor’s pursa Such 
a spectacle disgusted, every one, save the fanatics, who would 
willingly see the nitmost cruelties perpetrated on those whom 
they looked upon as enemies of both gods and men. The 
servants of the murdered consul were also put to death, and 
the names of Saints Nereus and Achilleus, which we find in 
the calendar at th§ 12th of May, show that the Church 
honors those on her altars, whom tyrants judged worthy of 
an ignominious death. Irene was then driven to seek some 


276 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


other home. She had some difficulty in finding one ; for being 
very active among the martyrs, both in prison and at the amphi- 
theater, she was well known to the magistrates, and might, any 
day, bring the sword of the executioner upon those who har- 
bored her. At last, however, she was successful, and the roof 
of poor Tullius’ father, who had recently become a Christian, 
afforded her a shelter. During the plague his two daughters 
were carried oflF and himself lay very low, when Irene visited 
him. Under her treatment he recovered, and being persuaded 
by her self-sacrificing example to love the religion that inspired 
her, he yielded to the invitation of grace. 

Meanwhile Cyprian, who had fulfilled his mission in Rome, 
was about to be sent as legate to Corinth, to settle, in the name 
of the successor of Peter, a dispute which arose in that turbu- 
lent city between the clergy and some of their flock. The liti- 
gants might indsed have appealed to St. John the Evangelist, 
who was much nearer them, to settle their controversy ; but 
the dispute was of such a nature as required the decision of the 
head of the Church. Venerable as St. John undpubtedly was, 
they believed that the successor of the chief of the Apostles was 
the only competent judge and supreme arbitrator on earth, in 
all matters regarding faith and church discipline. 

In the instructions given the legates whom St. Clement sent 
to Corinth on this occasion, he speaks of his apostolic powers, 
and designates the several persons whom he appoints to act in 
his name.* Now it happened just as Cyprian was preparing 
to set out on his journey, that he received a reply to a letter 
which he had Iddressed to Nilos inquiring after Anna. The 
letter was from the lady herself, and gave her cousin an epitome 
of her history from the time of their separation to the date of 
writing. Some of the details were harrowing in the extreme, 
and caused the young priest copious tears, but the ending 
brought back joy and consolation to his spirit. She related 
how her master, Nilos, had fallen ill and called in the Bishop 
to baptize him a Christian. “ Hereupon,” the letter read, “ he 
became suddenly well, and in a spirit of thanksgiving manu- 
mitted all his slaves. I was the first to regain my liberty, arid 

Since the discovery of a MS. copy of this vigorous epistle in the Royal 
Library, dating from the Nicene Council, no doubt exists among the learned 
Qf its genuineness, 


THE BETHOTHEt) IN THE AREN4. 


277 


the first act of my freedom was to consecrate myself to the 
service of the altar. I am too young to be admitted to the 
honor of a deaconess, which office I hope some day to be wor- 
thy to fill ; but I give the brethren what assistance I can mean- 
while, and help to distribute the alms to the poor. 0 cousin ! ” 
she concluded, “ how happy I feel at times when I reflect on 
the honor 1 have been chosen for — to be near the altar, and 
enrolled among the virgins of the sanctuary. But what a happi- 
ness is yours, who can handle and distribute the Body of the 
Lord. How great is the priestly dignity I ” Cyprian’s great 
fear had been that she would grieve for the hopelessness of 
ever possessing him, since he had vowed a life of celibacy ; 
but the letter dispelled that fear, and a great load seemed, 
when he had finished reading, to fall from his heart. As he 
was to return to Alexandria after visiting Corinth, he felt sure 
of seeing Anna ; therefore he wrote but a short letter to her, 
expressing his joy at having discovered his long lost cousin, 
and his hope of soon seeing her where they could talk at lei- 
sure over the past, and encourage each other in the pursuit 
of eternal happiness. “ Did not my duty force me elsewhere,” 
he concluded, “ I would set out to-morrow for Alexandria; but 
i am in God’s hands, the servant of the Church and no longer 
my own master wholly.” 

He despatched this letter the day before his own intended 
departure for Corinth, and got everything ready for the jour- 
ney. He then lay down and disposed himself to sleep, but 
sleep came not to him. He lay awake thinking of the wonder- 
ful complexity of human life. How strange it all seemed to 
him. Here he was on the point of seeing again, the city of his 
birth — his father’s house ; who occupied it now 1 The lawn 
before the door — the library — the peristyle — the fountain about 
which he played when a child and watched the circling eddies 
as he threw the pebbles in — the picture of his mother in that 
room — his murdered mother — Irene — his dead brothers lying 
under that cold blue stone — his father cruelly separated from 
him — then all the tenderest of tender situations, and the 
sacredest of sacred reunions and conversations and caresses — 
the rippling laughter of childhood — the toys and games of boy- 
hood — in short, the history of his young life passed before him 
like the phantoms of a dream and left him unutterably sad, and 


278 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


hopelessly alone. A vague weird spirit of lonesomeness stole 
upon him with these memories of the past, and for a few mo- 
ments he lay infinitely dejected and oppressed ; but he found 
a solace in prayer, a short fervent prayer, and soon after fell 
asleep. Wearied by the activity of his mind his sleep was 
broken and unrefreshing ; his mother’s sweet face haunted him 
throughout the night, beckoning him to follow her into all sorts 
of entanglements and dreary and dangerous places. The con- 
trast between her loveliness and the hard-heartedness she de- 
veloped as she drew her son into all manner of sulfering appalled 
him, while the ease with which she skimmed over guilds and 
dark abysses which it cost him (it seemed) ages of painful effort 
to traverse, caused him to regard her with mingled feelings of 
astonishment and awe. He would have longed to clasp her to 
his bosom, to call her once more mother ; but he could not ap- 
proach her — he could not even love her — yea, he was forced 
to hate her ! He awoke from this distressing perversion of 
natural impulses and emotions, glad to find it all unreal ; and 
as it was morning he arose and hastened to prepare himself by 
prayer to offer the Holy Sacrifice previous to setting out on his 
journey. 

When he gained the street he saw crowds, early as it was, 
hastening in the direction of the Forum, and on enquiry, he 
learned that a J ew was going to be interrogated by the Praetor ; 
that his name was J ohn, and that he had been brought from 
Asia Minor. Immediately it came to Cyprian’s mind that it 
was the Evangelist, and at once he set off to learn the truth. 
The ground of his surmise was this, that an ordinary indivi- 
dual would hardly be brought all the way to Rome for trial. 
And he was right, for truly enough the prisoner was St. John, 
whose age and venerable appejirance would command the respect 
of savages. As the Saint appeared, led by the guards, who were 
obliged to support him, one on each side to keep him from falling, 
the rabble who surrounded the magistrate, and reached all the 
way to the gates of the prison from which the Apostle was taken, 
set up a shout and demanded that he be thrown to the wild 
beasts in the theater. Others called out to burn the magician 
slowly to death, while others again cried out to nail him to a 
cross. When, at length, by frequent threats, the magistrate had 
secured silence, he proceeded with the interrogatory. The 


THE BETROTHED IN THE ARENA. 


279 ' 


feeble old man’s' answers were hardly audible ; but such as 
they were they gave the Praetor no satisfaction. At last he 
demanded, in a rage, whether the disciple was willing to 
abandon Christ and sacrifice to the gods of the Empire 1 
The answer to this question was more distinct than his 
former responses ; and although it was not heard by the 
crowd, that it was unsatisfactory was proved by the prompt 
action of the judge. Amid the furious yells of the canaille, 
he sentenced him to death, and gave some order to the chief 
lictor. There was a hurried rushing about of officers, and in 
a few minutes a huge pot or cauldron was rolled into the open 
space before the tribune, and a fire kindled under it with pitch 
and resin pine. Oil was now poured into the vessel, and in a 
very short time vapor began to ascend from it, and oil to bub- 
ble over the sides and trickle down upon the fire, thereby in- 
creasing its fury. Meanwhile the Apostle was violently strip- 
ped of his clothing, seized by four men and thrown headlong 
into the seething oil. The men danced about wringing their 
hands for pain, or rolled on the ground shouting madly for aid, 
as they pressed their flayed palms against their faces. The 
oil which was displaced when the Evangelist was thrown into 
the cauldron, splashed out upon and scalded these men in a 
fearful manner. But, lo ! there stood the Holy Apostle un- 
hurt ; not only unhurt, but refreshed, as if he had been placed 
in a delicious bath of tepid water. The Praetor was beside him- 
self with fear and rage ; and lest the crowd — always fickle as he 
knew — might begin to adore the martyr as a god, he ordered 
him to be taken out of the oil and hurried back to prison. 
Many did fall down at his feet as he passed along, a circum- 
stance which did not escape the notice of the officers ; and the 
most vehement in his endeavors to get near the Saint was 
Cyprian. He had been a long time struggling, elbowing his 
way forward to reach his master, wishing to die with him who 
had made him a priest. At last his efforts were successful, 
and at the prison gate the Apostle recognized his disciple kneel- 
ing before him. A few minutes more and the gates had closed 
on both, as the guard could not separate the two friends. 
“ Leave him,” said the head jailer to Cyprian, when he saw 
him brought in ; “ we have too many here already.” “ Save 
yourself,” said the Evangelist, “save yourself, my son, we can- 


280 


IRENE OE CORlNTfl. 


not spare priests.” “ He is a Christian,” said one of the scalded 
guards, who wanted to torture somebody, “ are you not ? ” 
addressing the young man. “ I am,” replied Cyprian proudly, 
“and'I would like you to torture me instead of this old man, 
whom you ought to be ashamed to maltreat.” “ No words, 
young man,” said the jailer, striking him with a large key, as 
he urged John forward with his foot, “you will get enough to 
gratify you before you leave here.” And so Cyprian did not 
go to Corinth. 

A few days after this, the Evangelist was sent away to the 
barren isle of Patmos, in the -^Egean sea, and Cyprian was 
brought before the magistrate to answer for his defiance of the 
Emperor’s edict. The cell where he was confined was an un- 
derground dungeon, cold, damp, without light from the sun 
and full of vermin and every kind of nameless filth. Prisoners 
were thrust down into this horrid place in dozens during the 
persecutions, and their food was a bit of bread of the vilest 
kind, and once a day, when the guards would not forget to 
serve it, a little water. The stench was almost in tolerable, and 
many went mad by the very fact of being shut up in such an 
earthly hell. For several successive days Cyprian was taken 
out of this' place, tempted to abandon his faith, and after a 
stretching on the rack, which nearly dislocated all his limbs, 
was thrust down again to suffer on the cold rock. This was the 
plan chosen to vanquish his stubborn will. The precious Ro- 
man Emperors, in their lucid intervals, recognized the value to 
the State of human life ; and so, they mercifully strove by racks 
and tortures, which only crippled or disfigured the victims, to 
bring them round to a more obedient way of acting or believ- 
ing : they took their lives only when it was apparent that tor- 
tures were unavailing. 

As on the fourth day they found the martyr as firm as ever, 
they varied liis torture by applying torches to his sides and 
feet. The pain caused by this fiendish invention was frightful,- 
but when it was at its worst, and the martyr groaned to his 
Lord for help, a sweet voice from the crowd, a voice he in- 
stantly recognized as Irene’s,fell upon his ears like the brush of 
an angel’s wing. The tongue it spoke in was Greek, and the 
the words were, “ be courageous, dear brother, make secure 
your crown.” Talk of the fortitude of Spartan mothers : none 


THE BETROTHED IN THE ARENA.. 281 

of them ever evinced the superhuman courage of the mother of 
the Maccabees, who stood by and encouraged her seven sons, 
while one after the other, they were subjected to the most 
atrocious cruelties. And Irene may be ranked with her among 
the small number of genuine heroines. Strong men have often 
sickened at the sight of mangled human flesh ; but this woman 
stood her ground while her own dear brother was roasting. It 
wrung her heart to see Cyprian agonizing at the feet of his tri- 
umphant enemies — enemies too of the truth of God; and 
like David, she might have cried out, “ How long 0 Lord wilt 
Thou forget me unto the end % how long dost Thou turn away 
Thy face from me 1 ” N'o such interpretative complaint, how- 
ever, escaped her. Though years had rolled by since she was 
separated from him, and although when discovered, he was 
enduring torments that would have drawn tears from the very 
stones of the Forum ; no womanish weakness, no false tender- 
ness was manifest in her conduct, but, on the contrary, a sub- 
lime resolution and sacrifice of self. 

The report that Cyprian was in prison spread among the 
Christians soon after his arrest. Irene, as the reader will re- 
member, was once struck by the resemblance of the young 
strange priest to her brother. When she learned further that 
his name was Cyprian, and that he was a Greek by birth, it 
was no wonder she sought an interview with him ; but his im- 
prisonment interposed a difficulty. She tried to gain admit- 
tance to the dungeon ; but the guards, usually willing to grant 
such request for a small money consideration, denied her the 
privilege on this occasion. Desperate, yet determined, she 
went to the Forum on the fourth day of his public suffering — 
she had been at the Coliseum the other three mornings, trying 
to secure parts of the bodies of the martyrs torn by lions — and 
when she saw her brother, it needed all the strength of a hero- 
. ine to control her feelings. But she succeeded in stifling those 
merely human sentiments that would urge her to his side, in 
order at any sacrifice — perhaps by whispering to him to deny 
his faith — to save his life. Who can tell what evil her word 
might have effected at that trying instant 1 But God’s grace 
made her equal to the occasion, and superior to her nature; and 
from a distance she addressed him in the language given above. 
She venerated him as already a martyr, and rejoiced because 


282 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


she seemed to see a crown suspended above his head by the 
hands of angels. He heard her voice in that moment of supreme 
agony, and turning his eyes in the direction whence it came, 
strove in vain to detect his sister ‘in the throng. Many be^ 
sides him heard that voice too, though they understood not 
what it said ; but there was one present who recognized Irene, 
and at once proceeded to accuse her of being a Christian ; it 
was the slave whom Tullius had sent with his final invitation 
to her, the day before the great triumphal procession. If the 
reader will but call to mind how insolent this slave became on 
that occasion, he will readily understand the motive of his 
present conduct. On his complaint she was seized and carried 
off to prison, that prison where she had so often imparted con- 
solation and encouragement to future martyrs. Meanwhile 
Cyprian was taken back to his dungeon, and salt put on his 
wounds to increase the acuteness of his pains. He had tired out 
the magistrate, who now resolved to let him die of his fester- 
ing sores in the loathsome cell, rather than punish him again in 
public. The reason is obvious. Half a dozen of the men em- 
ployed to torture him had declared themselves Christians, and 
three of them were beheaded on the spot. Hundreds of others 
also, though they did not court martyrdom, ceased to appear in 
the temples, and were only waiting for the end of the persecu- 
tion to abandon for ever the idolatrous worship of the Empire. 
As Irene was placed far from that part of the prison where her 
brother was confined, it was impossible for her to see him, 
even if she knew him to be there. It would be a great con- 
solation for her to converse with him, but a greater one 
seeing how much he suffered, to know that he had passed to 
his reward. Her inquiries among the guards were fruitless ; so 
there was nothing left to her but to remain in doubt, and await 
prayerfully and with patience her own turn to suffer. ’ It came 
next day. She was led publicly before the judges, who were 
at once struck by her beauty, and fascinated by her replies. 
They cajoled and flattered her, and one even offered her, pri- 
vately his hand and fortune, if she would but give up the 
“ Atheistic sect,” and sacrifice to the gods. As promises 
failed, threats were resorted to, and with no better success. 
Irene only smiled at their vain efforts to corrupt her, and pro- 
ceeded to defend her belief. She was remanded to prison. 


THE BETROTHED IN THE ARENA. 


283 


Next day, when she was brought into court, she was con- 
fronted by a number of pagan priests and learned men, whp 
sought to convince her by argument of the folly of her faith, 
and the truthfulness of theirs. Not only did she reduce them 
to humiliating silence ; but she converted several of them to a 
belief in Christianity. These latter were ordered by the 
magistrate to be immediately beheaded, and their property 
was forfeited to the State. Irene was then sent back to prison 
and sentenced to be whipped with rods. That ' night she was 
visited by the old senator (the father of Tullius), who wept 
like a child when she told him how she had been treated. 
She bade him to rejoice rather than to be sad, “'for we become,” 
said she, “ more like our Divine teacher, the more we suffer in 
this life. How many persons,” she continued, “ suffer 
through sickness, cruel wounds, bereavements and afflictions of 
soul equal to any we endfare, and get no reward for it all, be- 
cause they will not accept it from the hand of God in a right 
spirit, or because they are ignorant why or whence it comes, 
or that it is permitted for their greater good 1 Why, then, 
should not we be grateful for the knowledge we possess 
through our Faith, that every momentary affliction, and every 
passing pain, borne \^^ith resignation, will be rewarded an hun- 
dred fold in our celestial home 1 Even if we should receive no 
reward,” she went on in an enthusiastic way, “ is it not a pri- 
vilege worth our very life, to be like our dear Lord, patient suf- 
ferers 1 ” “ Irene,” answered the old man with a sad smile, 

“ I am nearly tired of life. I have seen some happy days, and 
many, many unhappy ones ; but your words would almost 
make me wish to live it all over again, so that I might endure 
its crosses in a proper spirit.” 

At this moment the low door opened, and a stout, heavy- 
bearded man, with a wild appearance, entered. “ Time for 
you to go,” said he curtly to the senator, whose identity was 
unknown to him. With a farewell bow to Irene, the latter 
withdrew, and she heard his heavy, uncertain steps descending 
the narrow staircase which led to the street. . “ Get up,” said the 
jailer, holding his lantern aloft, “ get up and follow me.” There 
were twenty persons in the small room. They followed the 
stout man into a larger apartment. “ I am ordered to strangle 
fifteen of you right away,” said he in just such a voice as one 


284 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


would expect to hear -from such a man, and without a moment’s 
hesitation every oho of those twenty people exclaimed to- 
gether, “ let me be one.” “ May Pluto take you,” said the 
grizzly-beard in a rage, “ what haste you make to leave this 
world.” “ Charon will have quite a job if he attempts to row 
them all across the Styx at once,” said an attendant from the 
gloom of the door-way, “ I remember — ” “ Here, draw the lots, 
this is no time to prate,” said the head jailer to the jocose 
assistant, who, -with this unappreciative rejoinder to spur him 
on, set spitefully about his task. The chosen fifteen were 
marched into another cell, singly, as their turn came. In thi% 
cell, at the height of about five feet from the floor, two holes 
were hewn right through the rear wall, about three inches 
each in diameter, and six inches apart. The executioner stood 
behind this wall in another room, and passed one end of a chain 
through one of the holes. The martyr was then told by the 
assistant to stand with his back to the wall, when the chain 
was drawn across his neck and back through the second hole, 
into the executioner’s hands, who then twisted the chains till 
they tightened on the victim, and choked him to death. This 
was the process of death by strangulation employed in the 
Mamertine prison in the case of many and many a Christian 
confessor, whose name is not honored on earth — where his 
fate was never known — while he partakes in his true home, of 
that joy which no man shall take from him. 

Irene spent the night in prayer, but towards morning in 
spite of her efforts to remain awake she became drowsy, and 
slept until summoned by the guards to go before the Prsetor. It 
was a dull sultry morning. Though but nine o’clock, the 
sun blazed with the greatest fury through the moist atmos- 
phere. It was refreshing, however, to feel the glow after the 
chill of the abominable prison air. Crowds of well-dressed and 
poorly-dressed but all thinly clad pleasure-loving Homans were 
winding slowly along towards the lofty Coliseum. As the 
weather threatened to be stormy, the vast canvas curtains 
which were made to be spread across the roofless enclosure to 
keep out rain and excessive sunshine, flapped lazily, as they 
hung ready for immediate use. The wire screen which sur- 
rounded the arena to keep the wild beasts from rushing out 
among the spectators was made secure, and in a word, every- 


THE BETROTHED IN THE ARENA. . 


285 


thing was in readiness for a great spectacle. Long before the 
time announced for the opening of the sports, the rising tiers 
of seats (such as we see in a modern circus) were alive with 
faces ; old faces and young faces, worn and wrinkled faces, 
plump and ruddy faces ; faces of women whose immense head 
dresses towered high above their heads, to the great disgust 
of those immediately behind them, and faces of men whose 
cloaks fluttered in jaunty rivalry with the ribbons of the wo- 
men. A special reserved stage was occupied by senators, con- 
suls, and praetors, who vied with each other in the splendor of 
their satin garments, and the number of their slaves. 

The sports began with a few pugilistic encounters ; but the 
people had become so used to seeing Christians torn and de- 
voured by wild beasts, that every other spectacle lost its interest 
for them. So they shouted to bring on the “ Atheists : ” and 
severahwere brought into the arena and left to the mercy of 
brutes which had been kept purposely without food in order to 
ensure a good appetite in them against the exhibition. Yet we 
read in the Acts of the Martyrs, that notwithstanding this 
precaution, those beasts, less brutal and bloodthirsty than their 
managers, in many instances forgot their cunning,and ferocity, 
and licked the feet and hands of the holy victims who were 
cast into the ring. When, on the«present occasion, several 
victims lay dying on the sand, their pure souls rejoicing while 
their quivering flesh bore testimony to excruciating physical 
suffering, Irene was brought forth and given a place opposite 
the Emperor’s dais. A burst of admii-ation greeted her appear- 
ance ; and her modest bearing excited, for th(5 nonce, the re- 
spect of the male spectators and the envy of the pagan women. 
The slave who had caused her arrest, stood at the entrance to 
the panther’s den, ready, anxious to pull aside the grated door, 
and let loose upon Irene the beast which was howling madly 
within. The choice of alternatives was fairly placed before her 
by the magistrates ; and the nods and head-shaking of the gray- 
haired senators might convince her of the folly of further re- 
sisting the boundless power of the emperor. Then some of the 
most learned men, who had prepared new objections to her 
faith since their last defeat, hurled these haughtily at. her, and 
challenged her to meet them. For a few minutes she remained 
silent, and the vast assemblage of scores of thousands held their 


286 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


breath tc^ catch her first words. The wind ceased to moan, the 
canvas to rustle, and the roaring of the savage animals in the 
dens was hushed. Irene remembered the Lord’s promise, and 
felt that it would be given her what to say for her Faith when 
led before tyrants ; and under this inspiration she set forth, in 
a voice of music and language that seemed divine, the truth 
and moral beauty of the religion she professed. As she swept 
along through mazes of eloquent speech, in tones which carried ’ 
conviction to many a heart, begot healthful doubt in others, 
and aroused bitter resentment in the disappointed magistrates 
who perceived her magical influence and feared the result, a 
stranger might imagine she was a messenger from the Divinity 
making a revelation to a fallen race. “ Shall we thus be made 
fools of by a woman ? ” said one of the judges to his colleagues, 
and rising up in a rag6> “ are the emperor’s decrees to be 
laughed at, and the gods blasphemed by this sorceress 1 See, 
the people are cheering her already ; they will soon adore her.” 
Then, turning to the musicians, he ordered the trumpets to be 
sounded, so as to drown her voice. The sky at the same mo- 
ment became overcast, and rain began to pour down upon the 
exposed thoqsands. The canvas awning was partially drawn 
across ; but this shut out so much of the light that it looked 
in the ampitheatre dike the gloaming. The order was given to 
remove Irene to the centre of the arena. She advanced with a 
firm tread to the place indicated for the struggle. Her arms 
folded, her eyes cast down she stood calmly waiting for the 
end. Men in the same situation, on the same spot, but armed 
with dagger or lance, had trembled as they stood doubtful of 
the issue ; but the Christian martyr, with no arm save prayer, 
yielded not to fear, and hungered for the encounter. She thought 
indeed, of Julius, of the bitter disappointment that would be 
his, and she prayed fervently for him. But in presence of 
death, why should even he engross her thoughts 1 A murmur 
of manifest discontent arose from the benches; hisses and groans 
mingled with the cheers which re-echoed through the vast edifice. 
The people did not relish the interruption, and expressed their 
disapproval ih the most marked way. “ Do your duty quickly, 
slave,” cried the master of the games who began to fear a possi- 
ble attempt at a rescue. What with the shouting (ff sixty thousand 
throats, the roaring of half a hundred wild beasts, the blare of 


THE BETROTHED IN THE ARENA. 287 

many trumpets, the flapping of the canvas overhead, the pat- 
tering of the rain, and the pealing of the thunder without, the 
Coliseum became at this moment a scene of wildest disorder. 
Many a one terrified by the vivid flashes of lightning which, fol- 
lowing quickly on the heels of the deafening thunder, lit up the 
place with an unnatural and death-like splendor, slunk away 
through narrow private stairways, or sat trembling and unnerved 
in their seats, while others, vexed and annoyed at the disappoint- 
ing turn things had taken, rose up and prepared to depart, 
crowding into and filling the spacious aisles which led to the gen- 
eral points of egress. But a savage cry which came from a pan- 
ther rejoicing over his release from his iron cage, recalled the 
interest of all, and riveted their attention once more upon the 
arena. Now, at the very moment when the beast sprang into the 
ring and crouched for his attack upon Irene, a man, hat- 
less, all dripping with rain which had evidently saturated his 
military uniform, his hair disordered and his whole appearance 
betokening frenzy, was seen by many thousands of curious eyes, 
rushing through one of the arched openings to the circus, and 
struggling through the surging crowds in the aisles, towards the 
arena. Men swore at him, resisted him, struck at him, and 
women shrank away from him, or were pushed ruthlessly 
aside as he fought his way onward till he reached the wire 
guard-rail, which he cleared at a bound ; and before the ex- 
clamations of surprise or anger died on the lips of those who 
used them, he had dashed, sword in hand, at the crouching 
panther. Irene was standing facing the beast, which had cir- 
cled about her several times, when she saw the strange figure 
bounding into the rirtg. By her, as by every one else, such an 
intrusion was unexpected ; and although she was in presence 
of a violent death, she raised her eyes from the form of the 
panther and fixed them on the newcomer. 

‘^Julius,” she shrieked, and fell to the earth. The panther 
was upon her and drove its sharp teeth into her shoulder. 
But as it did so, the sword of Julius was buried to the hilt in 
its side. With a terrific yell it loosened its hold, sprang off 
its victim, and making directly for its den bounded upon the 
slave who had incautiously ventured down into the ring. He 
was still tremblihg with the delight he experienced at seeing 
Irene devoured, when it seized him by the throat. That bite 


288 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


was its last; it dropped dead upon the slave’s body, which 
was found to be so horribly lacerated as to leave the wretch 
no hope of recovery. The next instant Julius had lifted the 
bleeding form of his betrothed from the sand, and passionately 
kissed her brow as the hot tears streamed down his glowing 
cheeks. 

“ Too late, my beloved ” said Irene regaining consciousness. 

“ Too late have we met ; but — but shall we meet in 1 ” 

Julius understood her — understood rather her look than her 
words which were utterly inaudible. “Yes,” he replied; “yes, 
my love, I am a Christian, I am one in my heart : is it enough 1 ” 
As Irene answered : “ It is, but you may not resist them ;” 
they were surrounded by a dozen armed men. 

The storm clouds suddenly folded themselves up, and the sun 
once more beamed through the cleared sky, as if rejoicing over 
the reunion of the long separated lovers. No one understood the 
extraordinary scene. Everyone was standing; some talking 
loudly, others silent, wondering whether it was a by-play, pre- 
pared by the master of the games, to surprise the people. 
Even the soldiers sent into the arena to arrest the intruder, 
were in doubt about the originality of the astounding spectacle 
— it looked, they said, so like a play — until one of them recog- 
nized Julius, and passed the word from mouth to mouth, 
“Lieutenant Caius Julius has disgraced his rank.” “Com- 
mand silence,” said Julius, addressing the magistrates. The 
sign was given, and the clamorous multitudes bent their atten- 
tion to the soldier. “ This lady,” the lieutenant began, “ is 
my betrothed wife. I returned from Spain to. claim her hand, 
but to my horror learned that she was a prisoner, and likely 
to be condemned, not for a crime — she is incapable of that 
— but because she worships a different God from yourselves.” 
The attention of the Coliseum was now, thoroughly, painfully 
aroused, and the audience straining forward to catch his words 
fixed their eyes upon the manly form of Julius, as he stood 
confronting the Senators, his left arm supporting Irene, his 
right extended towards the Imperial throne. “ I have fought 
for my country,” he continued in a voice which resounded 
through the theatre, and reached the farthest off topmost 
benches, “ and I have spilled my blood on many fields beneath 
the Roman eagles. I am ready to sacrifice further all I hold dear 


THE BETROTHED IN THE ARENA. ' 289 

on earth, my very life for the safety of the Commonwealth, 
But I cannot engage in a cause that will end in disaster, be- 
cause unjust. When the Emperor raises his powerful arm 
against the all-powerful God of the Christians, he invites de- 
struction, and hails the ruin of his country and mine. I am 
no longer his subject in a cause so unholy, I resign my sword 
and my commission, and enrol myself under the banner of the 
Cross.” A murmur of applause, which begun to swell into a 
cheer, was speedily checked by the trumpet signal, and Julius 
proceeded with his oration, or rather apology. “I have travelled 
from the burning sands of Sahara to the far Hyrcanian forests,” 
said he, “and from Britain to the farthest provinces of Spain, 
and everywhere I have found Christians. Not alone among 
the poor and the illiterate have I discovered them. I have 
given no small share of my time to the study of philosophy, 
as my comrades-in-arms, some of whom I see about me, are 
aware ; and among those whom you call Atheists, though they 
worship the Creator of the Universe, I have met men and 
women — here he looked proudly down at Irene — who were 
able to instruct me in the highest branches of the abstruse 
sciences, and who afforded the brightest examples of lofty 
faith, unselfish love, and unassailable chastity, in an age when 
the scepticism and immorality of this great city, the mistress of 
the world, is a scandal to the most degraded barbarians. Their 
pure morality as well as their sublime doctrines, which I have 
carefully examined, have persuaded me that* their religion is 
from God ; and if Caesar will degrade me or even take my life 
because of this persuasion, I here freely declare that T am pre- 
pared to part with it.” “ Seize him, guards,” cried the horrified 
magistrates all together, “ seize him ; he excites the people to 
sedition.” “ Disarm him, disarm him,” shouted the furious 
praetors ; “ he blasphemes against the gods and the Emperor.” 
The soldiers, at first stupefied, now set about obeying their 
orders ; and while they tore his armour from Julius and his 
sword, deafening cries and contradictory orders filled the air 
with a confused sound. Some cheered the lieutenant’s speech, 
and waved their handkerchiefs in* sympathy and approval ; 
others cried “Let loose the lions on both of them” ; while others 
simply shouted vociferously without expressing any articulate 
words. In vain the senators waved their hands, and the 


290 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


trumpeters blew their horns ; and for a full five minutes it was 
impossible either to give or receive any orders whatsoever. 
But the exertions of the men in charge of the lions to open the 
iron cages at last brought the babel of noises to a hushed still ; 
all knew what was now coming ; the lions were to be let 
loose. 

Irene sank on, her knees and prayed for strength, not for 
herself, but for Julius, to pass triumphantly through this new 
ordeal. Keverently he knelt down beside her, and with the 
zeal of a convert exclaimed, “ I am happy : we die together.” 
Hundreds who were unwilling to witness the last act of this 
fearful tragedy went out of the building as fast as the crowded 
state of the aisles would allow, and in this way offered a feeble 
protest against the inhuman policy of the State. The cages 
were at length opened, and the lions just about to rush out 
upon the intrepid lovers when the order was revoked, and » 
signal given to remove the martyrs to the prison. The cause 
of this hasty change of programme was a message received from 
one of the Emperor’s attendants, who entered breathless through 
a secret passage. It was immediately read for the people, and 
ran thus: “The Emperor is unwell; the games shall cease.” 
Disappointment was depicted on many a countenance, and many 
cursed the Emperor under tbeir breath, for interfering, by his 
sickness, with their pleasures. Then they slowly departed, 
leaving the Coliseum to the prisoners, the guards, and the wild 
beasts. Julius ahd Irene were again separated and brought to 
the Mamertine, where they were locked up in dungeons as far 
apart as the cruel jailers could place them. 



CHAPTER XXVI. 


. A LIGHT IN THE DUNGEON. 

“ They that sow in tears shall reap in joy. Going they went and wept cast- 
ing their seeds. But coming they shall come with joyfulness carrying 
their sheaves.” — Ps. 125. 


•X^^yTHEX Julius found himself, for the first time in his life 
in a dungeon, his sense of outraged manhood and 
citizenship caused him to feel the indignity most 
keenly. The filth and stench of the place, and the absence of 
sunlight gave the damp cell such a dismal, dreary air as accorded 
well with the spirit of the cult which threw unoffending Chris- 
tians into it. It had such a chilling effect upon Julius, that 
if anything could shake his new found faith it would be a 
short residence in siich a place. But he soon found that his 
lot there was comparatively pleasant. 

It was early that morning when he arrived at Ostia, and his 
hasty journey towards the city left him no time to take food. 
His intention was to have his morning meal at the house of a 
certain acquaintance and then visit Irene ; but the intelligence 
received as soon as he reached the gate, put every thought of self 
out of his head. He hurried on to the house where Irene lived 
— she had told him in her letter where it was — with a faint hope 
that the Irene spoken of by those low fellows might not, after 
all, be his betrothed. This hope vanished when he reached the 
mansion once owned by Flavius Clement. The place was 
closed, and the neighbors informed him of the fate of its owners. 
Then he turned towards the Forum, but it was abandoned ; all 
interest was absorbed by the great spectacle to come ofif in the 
Coliseum. It was already late, an hour beyond the time ; but 
he hurried on resolved to rescue or to die with his bride, though 
even to see her alive would have gratified him then beyond his 


292 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


diminishing expectations. Well, he saw her alive and was re- 
cognized by her ; he had pressed her fainting form to his breast 
and supported her in his arms while he proclaimed to the world 
his love for her, and for the religion she professed even unto the 
enduring of stripes and shedding of blood. And as he sat on 
the cold stone floor of the Mamertine and peered into the 
gloom, and shivered for cold, hunger and exhaustion, the 
thought of these things consoled him and reconciled him to his 
fate. After awhile he arose and cautiously paced his dungeon, 
in order to keep himself moderately warm. “ Do not step on 
me,” said a feeble voice out of the darkness of a corner. “ My 
God,” exclaimed Julius, stopping suddenly, “ whose voice is 
that 1 ” He had thought he was alone. It would have startled 
him to discover anyone else present ; but he was clearly amazed 
to hear that voice. “ A Christian,” repeated the voice in ans- 
wer to the question, — “ but whose voice do I hear 1 ” it con- 
tinued, “I have heardut before !” “Cyprian,” cried Julius, with 
just the barest tinge of doubt in his accent. “Julius, Julius, it 
is the voice of Julius,” groaned the sufferer at the same instant. 
A little oil lamp hung from the ceiling and threw a dull circle 
of light upward. Julius reached for it, pulled it down, and 
went, stepping carefully in search of the priest. He was lying 
quite naked on the floor, his sides and hands and feet swollen 
in a shocking manner. Tears started to the eyes of both men 
as they recognized each other’s features, and Julius laying the 
lamp upon the floor knelt down and embraced the prostrate 
manacled victim of pagan civilization. A few words explained 
all. The tale was too harrowing, perhaps, for the neophyte’s 
ears, so Cyprian touched but lightly on his own sufferings. 
“ You, too, are wounded,” said he, as he noticed blood on the 
face of his comrade. “ I did not know it,” said Julius, lifting 
his hands to his face to discover his wounds. A deep gash in 
his left cheek caused by the panther’s claws, and a cut across 
the temple, the result of a blow from the back of a sabre in the 
hands of one of the soldiers who had arrested him, were all 
he could find then. “ It is nothing,” said the soldier, “but let 
me pour this oil upon your sores ; ” and extinguishing the lamp 
he suited the action to the word. “ We have no need of light 
here now,” said he, as he looked down at Cyprian through the 
gloom. “ No,” replied the priest, “ we are light enough for 


A LIGHT IN THE DUNGEON. 


293 


each other.” Then, after a pause, both men began to speak 
on the same instant, the same thought being uppermost in 
their minds. 

What a gap tliey had to fill up since their last meeting ! 
J ulius yielded to Cyprian, who asked, “ have you ever heard 
of Irene % ” “ Have you 1 ” inquired the soldier, trying to be 

composed. “ Unless a woman who spoke to me when I was 
on the rack were she, I have never heard of my sister,” said 
the priest ; ” then added, “ if it was not Irene if was her 
angel.” “ And if that woman was not my betrothed, I am 
beside myself,” said Julius, with just a touch of mirth which 
he could not repress. “ Explain what — tell me, tell me quickly, 
have you discovered her?” “ I have,” answered Julius. “I 
found her all too late — ” “ Dead ? ” interjected her brother. 

“ Not dead,” continued Julius, “ but in the arena, and she is 
now under the same hospitable roof as ourselves.” Thank 
God,” said Cyprian, “ what an honor to be worthy of martyr- 
dom ; perhaps we shall all three die together.” “I,” replied 
Julius, “would hot 'wish to outlive her.” After the soldier 
had given him all the particulars, Cyprian related what he had 
heard of Irene since his arrival in the city, particularly her 
heroism during the plague ; yet it had not occurred to him 
that she was his sister, having met so many with the same 
name. Thus the day passed on, and while Irene lay moaning 
alone in another part of the prison, her bitten shoulder causing 
her untold pain, her brother and her lover allayed each other’s 
sufferings and diverted their thoughts from present woes by 
relating the strange or perilous incidents in their past and 
widely different careers. When the sun went down the -guard 
brought to all the prisoners an allowance of bread and water. 

An hour passed and they were startled by the. unexpected 
grating of the outer doors on their hinges. What could it 
mean ? Perhaps another strangulation scene ! The guard 
finally reached the inner doors and threw them open. “ Let 
all prisoners accused of being Christians come out.” Julius 
went out. “ The Emperor is dead,” said the guard, “ you are 
free.” As Julius was about to turn back in order to bring 
Cyprian the news, he saw Irene coming towards him. Her face 
was pale and wore a sad look, and her gait was uncertain. In 
an instant Julius was at her side, supporting her and speaking 


294 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


to her words of triumphant hope and love. “ At last,” said 
he, “ we have found each other, and who shall ever again 
separate us 1 ” For a while she could not reply, she could only 
weep ; but at last she said faintly, “ death, only death.” And 
as she looked up into the manly face of her lover, she smiled 
through the tears that flowed as much on account of her pains, 
as of the unexpected pleasure which overtook her. “ Cyprian,” 
she murmured then, “ Cyprian, my brother, was tortured a few 
days ago, and I must find out what has become him. He is 
dead, I am sure,” she then added, “ he could not live.” “ I 
know him,” said Julius. “You know him? How, where, 
when did you see him ? 0 Heavens, you knew him, my poor 

brother ! ” “ Do not. weep, my love,” said Julius, smiling, he 

is here in — ” “ Here ! ” echoed Irene, startled. Yes,” said 

Julius, “ and alive under this roof ; I have been with him in 
the same cell since our incarceration ; but you cannot see him 
now, you cannot bear it.” “ I can bear anything,” replied 
Irene, confidently. “ Where is he 1 O tell me where he is. I 
must see him at once.” And she saw him in the cell lit by the 
jailer’s lantern. Heavens, what-a meeting was this ! What a 
combination of gladness and of pain ; what a conflict of 
emotions it engendered ! What heart opening and heart break- 
ing ! Julius was right; it was too much for Irene to bear.’ 
She knelt beside her brother to caress him, to comfort him and 
be cobsoled in turn. Was it the fulfilment of her dream 1 In 
a few minutes the excitement overpowered her,' and Julius — 
who from a sense of delicacy had remained without, had to 
to enter and carry her away and out into the cool evening air. 
He left her in a place of safety and returned with an ambulance 
to bring thither her brother with all possible speed. 


CHAPTER XXVIL 


SUNSHINE. 


“ Then before all they stand, — the holy vow 
And ring of gold, no fond illusions now 
Bind her as his. ” 

. —Samuel Eogers. 


S HREE months after the above recorded events transpired, 
as.the morning sun emerged from the hills that bordered 
the horizon, little knots of people might be seen wend- 
ing their way to a house adjoining the Flavian mansion. They 
were Christians who wished to be present at a ceremony In the 
church of their restored bishop, St. Clement, the third succes- 
sor of St. Peter in the Roman See. The church was 'Clement’s 
house, owned by him before he became a Christian, and now 
consecrated to the service of God. Part of this church is still 
visible underneath the present San Clemente, and is in a re- 
markably good state of preservation. Entering this chapel, the 
men went to one side, the women to the other, and all lay pros- 
trate for some minutes in secret prayer. When the clergy 
entered all stood up, and a strange and motley crowd it was. 
Of all ages and conditions in society, many of them bore 
marks of the recent persecution. There were women whose 
face and ears were disfigured, and men without hands or on 
cputches, their feet having been cut off or burned ; and many 
were warped into odd shapes by the force of Ihe tortures they 
had endured on the rack or under the teeth of wild beasts in 
the theater. There were many new faces there, some of them 
senators, whose awkward movements proved their recent en- 
trance to the fold ; while in and near the vestibule there were 
a few who lay prostrate during the whole service, over whose 
bodies it was necessary to walk in order to enter the church. 


296 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


These were the few who had denied the faith under threats or 
torture, and who now were expiating their apostacy*by this 
humiliating penance. 

The clergy, all dressed in long white garments, with some 
varieties and badges to indicate their rank, now entered, fol- 
lowed by the venerable Clement himself wearing a purple cloak, 
and in his left hand carrying a golden staff. He took his seat 
at the lowest part of the sanctuary proper, a part walled off by 
fluted marble columns, from the rest of the church. After all 
had knelt a while, Cyprian advanced to the front of the sanc- 
tuary, attended by a number of clergy of lower degree, bearing 
torches. He looked young and fresh, a slight lameness being 
the only indication of his recent horrible sufferings. From the 
women’s side of the chapel a lady dressed in white arose, fol- 
lowed by two others, and at the same time three men arose 
and advanced from their side, to join the women who now 
knelt before the priest. The center couple were, of course, 
Julius, who had been baptized, and Irene. They were mar- 
ried by the bride’s brother, whose emotion was shared by the 
principals, and in fact by the whole body of the clergy and 
people. Afterwards the Scriptures were read by the deacons, 
and the bread and wine were blessed and consecrated by the 
Bishop. A solemn hush, such as the Apocalyptic writer as- 
cribes to Heaven, reigned about, from this awful moment till 
the time for Communion. Then nearly all who were present 
— the married couple first — advanced to receive from the hands 
of priests the consecrated species, and returned reverently to 
their places. When all had made a suitable thanksgiving to 
the Lord whom they had received, they joined in a hymn of 
praise for the peace which had come to the Church, after the 
dreadful storm that was desolating it Then the holy Bishop 
advanced to the front of the sanctuary, and after saying a few 
words of encouragement and advice to the happy bride and her 
heroic companion’, imparted the usual benediction to the de- 
parting worshippers. 

The reader would, in all probability, like to hear something 
now of Anna, whom we left so unceremoniously in a former 
chapter ; but as our story has come to a close, we cannot at- 
tempt to say more than a few words about her. As soon af- 
ter the marriage as he could arrange his affairs, Julius, with 


SUNSHINE. 


297 


his handsome bride and Cyprian, set sail from Ostia for Alex- 
andria in Egypt. They expected of course to meet Anna,' still 
in the household of Nilos, and ambitious to serve the Church. 
They had a pleasant voyage — full of hope, and brimming with 
innocent delight : but when they reached the African. capital 
they found that both Nilos and Anya had suffered death for 
the Faith, about the same time that they ' were themselves 
undergoing tortures for the same cause at Eome. They met 
Zelta, whom Cyprian instantly recognised as the person who had 
saved his life, when the pagan priest attacked him ; angl from 
her learned all the particulars of the martyr’s Ijfe recorded in 
the pages of this story. Through the former slave — she was a 
free woman now — they were made acquainted with Arbax, at 
whose house, to her inexpressible delight, Irene saw the child, 
now a beautiful young woman, whom she had met in the rob- 
ber’s cave of Cumae. These women wept and laughed by turns, 
as the events- of those days came back to their recollection; 
but their present happiness was so complete ’that although 
their former sufferings came very vividly before them, they 
were able to look at them with equanimity, nay, .even with a 
a species of regret. The assurance of Irene that the old rob- 
ber and pirate had died a penitent Christian, mollified the 
irate Arbax, who, even after the restoration of his daughter, did 
not* wholly get rid of a grudge for her abductor ; and after lis- 
tening to the tale of his distressing end, he went so far as to 
express his willingness to part with another daughter under 
similar circumstances, if he could be sure that through her he 
would meet another Irene. All such compliments as these 
were highly pleasing to Julius, who loved his wife as the fondest 
of husbands should, and venerated her besides, as a martyr to 
the truth. By the way, of all the marriage presents Irene re- 
ceived, that which she most prized was the kerchief stained 
with the martyr’s blood, which J ulius had obtained froVn the 
soldier in Gaul. 

Cyprian became permanently attached to the Alexandrian 
Church, and was. afterwards made a Bishop. Arbax lived 
to a good old age, to see all his children happily settled in life, 
and Zelta, notwithstanding the fact that she had received an 
honorable proposal, remained in a state' of perpetual virginity, 
so as to be like, as she expressed it, “the sweet Mother of God, 
S 


298 


IRENE OF CORINTH. 


and our Lord Himself.” Julius and Irene lived happily to- 
gether in their adopted country, and never wanted a fund of 
incident and adventure, with which* to gratify the frequent re- 
quests of their children “ to tell them a story.” One only grief 
occasionally clouded Irene’s spirits — the fact that she never 
saw her cousin, from the moment they parted in the High 
Priest’s palace. But as Arbax had looked after the decent 
burial of Anna’s body, and that of Nilos who through her had 
embraced the faith, it afforded her great consolation to kneel at 
the Saint’s tomb, and gathering her children about her, to di- 
rect their prayers, with her own, to the throne of mercy, 
through the intercession of their martyred relative. 

Centuries have rolled by since the thrilling events here re- 
corded took place, and the bones of these heroic children of 
an erst despised and persecuted creed are reduced to dust in 
graves which no living person can locate. But their memory 
lives in the pages of story, and will continue to whisper, till 
the end of time, into the hearts of all of us who are attentive 
that true and lasting honor is best secured by firm adherence 
to the principles of rectitude, as dictated by sound reason and 
Divine teaching. 


The End. 








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